


No Filter

by pukingflowers



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: A literal saga, Adult Content, Also non-stop flirting, And realize they love each other, Body Swap, Brief kidnapping, Canon-Typical Violence, Curse busters!, Demons, Eventual Happy Ending, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, Everyone wants to kill the bard, Fluff, Gangs, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Idiots in Love, Injury, Jaskier and Ciri are buddies, Jaskier and Geralt travel the continent, M/M, Pissing off everyone they meet along the way, Possession, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Slow Burn, Soulmates, They go through HELL let me tell you, They just got out of medieval jail, They take a lot of baths??, They try to solve other curses too, True Love, Two idiots get into lots of trouble, Whump, Yennefer is a badass, Yikes, big bad villain arcs, demons now, eventual established relationship, long fic, so many demons - Freeform, traveling to other worlds
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-16
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:09:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 96
Words: 307,683
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22283896
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pukingflowers/pseuds/pukingflowers
Summary: When Jaskier is cursed to always speak his mind, he and Geralt are forced to journey together to fix it before it gets him killed...if they can find the culprit in time. From traveling through swamps and fighting bandits to attending elegant banquets, the road ahead will not be easy.Slash, post-fight fix-it fic! Chapters 1-17 are what I consider to be the start-conclusion of the truth spell fic, it's not necessary to read past that! The next arcs see them exploring a haunted fortress with a dark secret, getting involved with a gang and going to medieval jail, and a small time skip where they are vacationing at the coast and get hit with a body-swapping curse.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 2464
Kudos: 3756
Collections: Best Geralt, Long Works to Read, Shouta's Fics to Finish!, Wasn't Quite Expecting This (But I Loved It)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve been obsessed with all the wonderful cursed!Jaskier fics out there, but they often take away his voice and I thought it would be interesting (and hilarious) to see what the reverse would be like!
> 
> Also planning on making this a fairly long, slow-burnish fic with several different arcs as they try to cure the very best bard. Because what I need are just endless Jaskier/Geralt adventures after that awful fight!

“I think Jaskier’s in trouble.”  
  
Geralt looked up from where he had been polishing his armor to see Ciri standing in the doorway of Kaer Morhen’s armory. It was the crack of dawn and she looked pale as a ghost - one of her dreams, Geralt realized, judging by the cold sheen of sweat on her brow.  
  
“Hm. Let me tell you something about Jaskier - he’s always in trouble.” Geralt replied, setting the armor down and making to leave the room. He hadn’t seen Jaskier since their fight but Ciri, quite proficient at protecting herself after nearly half a year of training in a den of Witchers and allowed to explore to her heart’s content, had apparently met him by chance on one of her little excursions.  
  
The young girl stood stubbornly in his way, crossing her arms over her nightgown. “And you bail him out. That’s how it’s always been.”  
  
Geralt gently nudged her out of the way, knowing from the soft footsteps padding behind him down the hallway that she was following him and would not give up that easily. Ciri was stubborn like that, he was starting to learn. Didn’t give up easily on anything. Yen was teaching her well.  
  
“Ciri. No. If I rushed in every time he upset some lord for screw...” he trailed off, face contorting as he tried to search for a more delicate way to phrase it. “For touching things that aren’t his. If I did, there would be no time for anything else.”  
  
Ciri quickened her pace until she was standing in front of him again, brow furrowed. “It’s not like that this time. I think he’s going to...” her tough facade faltered a bit, showing her age. “Die.”  
  
The man sighed heavily, unsure how to feel about the twinge in his chest at her words. “Okay. I’ll check on him. Now go. You’ll be late for your lessons.”  
  
Satisfied, the girl smiled sheepishly at him before hurrying off.  
  
Geralt grunted, heading to the stables to get Roach ready for the trip. He hadn’t planned on spending his afternoon tracking down the traveling bard, and since their fight he had been actively avoiding Jaskier altogether. Easier that way. Less headaches, less time wasted trying to craft an apology when words weren’t necessarily his strong suit. But Jaskier...it wasn’t right, the way Geralt had spoken to him, and he knew that. He couldn’t live with himself if those were their final words to each other.  
  
He mounted Roach swiftly and took off for the nearest village to ask around. If Jaskier was anything, it was easily traceable - the man had a habit of leaving behind a slew of angry nobles and irritated bar patrons wherever he went.

♜ ♖

After storming through countless villages and frightening all of their tavern keepers, Geralt finally found the little shit’s most recent haunt. It only took him two bloody days. Even when he was miles away, the bard somehow managed to remain the thorn in his side that he just couldn’t reach.  
  
It was quite a large town and by the time Geralt threw open the door of its inn he was fuming and soaked to the bone from the rain. As he went to buy some ale at the bar he was interrupted by the sound of a light, familiar tune, strummed absentmindedly on a lute. Patrons watched the Witcher carefully as he approached his bard, seated at a corner table, legs kicked up on its wood surface. Blissfully unaware of the human embodiment of a dark cloud stalking towards him.  
  
When Jaskier saw him he started, nearly knocking over a flagon of mead as he sat up straight, blue eyes unreadable in the dim lighting. The music stopped abruptly. “Bloody hell. Geralt?”  
  
“Jaskier.” A brief silence. “Ciri sent me. Thinks you’re in danger.”  
  
The bard placed his lute on the table as he stood, squinting at the hulking man standing before him. He rubbed absentmindedly at the back of his neck, perhaps a new tick he’d developed since their separation.  
  
“Ah, Ciri! Sweetest little thing. Certainly doesn’t take after you in that regard. Tell me, did she take my advice and buy the powder blue dress? That tailor did not know what he was doing recommending navy. With her coloring. Navy, honestly.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, crossing his arms and fixing the bard with a withering look. “Of course you two met at the damn tailor. Did you not hear what I just said?”  
  
The murmurs around them grew more agitated by the second - even with Jaskier’s positive influence and incredibly catchy tunes, the sight of Geralt still inspired fear in most. Until he helped them solve their monster problems, that is. Humans were very predictable.  
  
“Ladies and gentlemen, there is nothing to fear! This is Geralt of Rivia, the White Wolf in the flesh! Time for a celebratory ballad, if I do say so myself.” Jaskier grabbed his drink and held it up in a toast, which was met with halfhearted, nervous tittering.  
  
Geralt watched in confusion as the bard glided gracefully past him, perching himself on a center table, lute in hand once more. The irritation he’d felt before was back with a vengeance and he stormed after the smaller man, roughly yanking the instrument out of his hands.  
  
“Fucking hell, Jaskier, if you make me repeat myself once more I will snap you and this bloody thing in half. What did you do? Who did you piss off?”  
  
Jaskier looked at him, really looked at him, for what felt like the first time since he’d blown into the tavern like a white-haired tornado. “I heard you, Geralt. I’ll keep an eye out for any, you know, major threats to my life and all that. Tell dear Ciri thank you from me. Is that all?”  
  
This was all wrong. Geralt could smell anger, passive aggression, but Jaskier’s tone was pleasant. Why were humans so damn confusing? He growled as the bard reached for his lute once more and Jaskier had the good sense to pause. “You’re angry. Rightfully so. But you’re being a twat.”  
  
The brunette barked a laugh. “Angry! What on earth gave you that idea? I was only told to fuck off by my best friend and blamed for all his worldly problems, which, let’s face it, I had a minor role in _at best_. At best, Geralt! And now, in lieu of apology, he’s come to accuse me of some new fuck up that I probably had nothing to _do_ with and - “  
  
As Jaskier ranted Geralt gradually became aware of a vibration, subtle at first but growing more persistent with each syllable the bard spoke. He glanced down at the Witcher medallion and saw it was pulling urgently at its chain. Returning his gaze to Jaskier he noticed he had gone from rubbing at the back of his neck to scratching it, too distracted to see his own odd behavior. His face was also turning a bit red, though Geralt knew that tended to happen when he forgot to breathe while speaking.  
  
“Jaskier. Shut up.”  
  
The scratching didn’t stop, spreading now to the front of his neck, and of course, neither did his blasted tirade. “Oh, and now you’re telling me to shut up! Priceless! Really, Geralt, you _wound_ me, I - “ he was cut off suddenly by an involuntary choking noise that came from the back of his throat.  
  
At the same time Geralt reached for him, grabbing his shoulders, trying to whirl him around but Jaskier’s knees were buckling suddenly, the bard crying out, both hands now flying to his throat, scratching, leaving long red lines. “Guh?” Large, panicked blue eyes searched Geralt’s face for an answer as they both crashed to the ground.  
  
Geralt’s hands fluttered over Jaskier’s convulsing form as he choked and spluttered, not sure where to touch. The barkeep came up beside him with a mug of water, but Jaskier’s flailing legs kicked him back, sending the small offering flying.  
  
“Jask - _Jaskier_.” Geralt was practically straddling the bard now, pinning his wrists to the floor. “Calm down, you need to calm - “  
  
A wrist broke free and whacked him in the face on its way back to the neck of its owner, making Geralt growl. “Guh - Geralt, wh-what’s happening - _ow_ ,” Jaskier gurgled wetly.  
  
Geralt smelled metal - blood - and saw it lining the inside of the bard’s lips, bright against his now deathly pale skin. He saw something else, too, when Jaskier had opened his mouth to speak, something in the back of his throat that certainly didn’t belong.  
  
Ignoring Jaskier’s alarmed whining, Geralt grabbed his chin with one hand and went to open his mouth with the other. “Open. Don’t fucking bite me.”  
  
Another gurgle in response, and a scowl that said ‘don’t _you_ dare do whatever you’re about to do right now.’ Geralt grunted and pried his mouth open - Jaskier’s hands were batting at him, grabbing his arms but the stronger man’s grip was like iron, bruising - and stuck his fingers down the bard’s throat. They brushed against something sharp that pricked his finger, drawing out a string of curses from the Witcher’s lips. He could see that Jaskier’s eyes were starting to roll back in his head, his face tinged an odd shade of grey, and he knew he had to move quickly.  
  
“Just a little - hold _still_ , for once in your life, Jaskier!” Geralt growled, fingers scrabbling for purchase on what felt like a small, prickly ball. Surprisingly, it seemed to be trying to make its way out, moving slowly through the slim channel of Jaskier’s throat and within moments Geralt was able to yank it out, falling back and off the man beneath him, instinctively dropping the thing as it stabbed him again.  
  
Both men were panting, Jaskier’s chest heaving with effort, the hacking subsiding to weak coughs. He made to sit up, ignoring the way his arms trembled dangerously beneath him, and gave Geralt a questioning look. His burbles and squeaks were surprisingly easy to understand and Geralt nodded, gingerly picking up the item he’d just gone deep diving in Jaskier’s tonsils for.  
  
It looked similar to the spiny balls that often fell from trees in springtime, although nearly black in color and far more sinister. Geralt was squinting at it, the bit of blood at the tips of its spikes, the way it seemed to pulse with _something_ as though it were alive, when it suddenly dawned on him that it might not be the best idea for Jaskier to see the monstrosity that had just crawled up and out of his windpipe.  
  
Too late for that, however, as the smaller man’s horrified gaze was fixed on the object. Geralt tried his best to sound...comforting, or some equivalent. “Look, it’s fine, it’s just...uh...oh come on, don’t - ” with one very frantic, slightly pathetic squeak the bard pitched sideways, Geralt managing to break his fall just in time as he passed out. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wasn’t going to post this until tomorrow but it’s really only half of chapter two, and you guys made me feel all happy with your lovely kudos, so here’s like...a tidbit? Thank you!!!
> 
> Also genuinely so sorry for the eldritch horror I’ve created to represent this curse <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I forgot to mention that I’m fairly new to the Witcher universe so I deeply apologize for any discrepancies, I’m trying my best to learn!

It was dawn when Jaskier finally woke, frightened and confused. The first thing he became aware of was a general soreness radiating from his chest, continuing up to his throat and mouth. And his mouth was dry, a rancid taste dancing on his tongue that he couldn’t quite place.  
  
The second thing he became aware of, after his eyes adjusted to the blinding morning light that easily penetrated the dusty white curtains of the room, was Geralt of Rivia standing over him, arms crossed over his chest, stony-faced and unamused.  
  
Jaskier went to let him know that this was a very unnerving thing for a man of his delicate sensibilities to wake up to, but when he spoke it came out as a series of _embarrassingly_ high pitched, unintelligible noises. He furrowed his brow, attempting to speak again, and nearly had a heart attack when a calloused hand clamped over his mouth.  
  
“Stop trying to speak. I know, a challenge for you.” Geralt growled, now leaning over and examining him - specifically his mouth and neck - with expressionless yellow eyes.  
  
Jaskier quirked a brow, indignantly removing Geralt’s hand. Ignoring the other man’s command he tried to talk again, but only managed a (mostly incoherent) ‘why,’ wincing as the soreness of his throat became more of a searing ache. He sagged into the pillows, looking and feeling very put out by the whole situation.  
  
Geralt sighed, taking a seat at the edge of the bed and staying there despite Jaskier’s childish attempts to nudge him off with his foot. “The town healer is on her way with a potion. Refused to keep trying after your fifth time spitting it out last night. Your throat is, um...” the large man, looking considerably more _hulking_ in the tiny room, awkwardly tried to find a way of explaining things that wouldn’t result in Jaskier fainting again. Delicacy was certainly not his strong suit. “Damaged. From the thing that came out of you.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened and he straightened up a bit, wanting to know exactly what Geralt meant by _came out of him_.  
  
Fortunately, Geralt seemed to mostly understand his little hand gestures and facial expressions because he started recounting what had happened - _un_ fortunately, the door opened at that exact moment, depriving Jaskier of any sort of explanation.  
  
An old woman entered the room, glaring rather than looking relieved when she saw Jaskier up and moving. “Ah, he’s up. You’d do well not to spit this one up, bard.” She chuckled at Jaskier’s confused look and produced a small vial filled with a putrid-looking liquid. “Phifre. Best healer you’ll find around these parts. I told your lovely Witcher here I’d only charge him for three sessions, so quit being a brat, drink up, and let me be done with it - else I’ll up my prices a bit.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “By ‘only three sessions’ she means thirty gold pieces. Hardly a bargain.”  
  
As soon as he had swallowed the tincture he retched, hand flying to his mouth as his insides churned. Phifre shot him a deadly glare that nearly matched Geralt’s in intensity - their combined animosity motivated him to keep the awful thing down, thankfully, and as soon as he was able to breathe evenly again he started to feel the effects. The ache dissipated, starting in his throat and cooling, soothing everything it touched on its way down.  
  
He smiled at the healer, prepared to offer his thanks.  
  
“Th-this tastes worse than you smell, Phifre.” Jaskier said, as pleasant as ever, although his face crinkled as he processed his own words. “Wh-who tries to feed a man a potion when he’s clearly unconscious, anyway? Charging that much gold for a simple brew is practically a crime when you know you could have waited until morning. I demand you lower your price to one session.”  
  
Phifre’s expression quickly morphed into one of outrage just as Jaskier’s changed into one of shock, at himself, and he coughed loudly into his hand as though his outburst was some kind of ailment. When he felt ready to try again he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, offering another charming smile to the healer.  
  
“S-so sorry. Now, what I mean to say is - thank you.” There, that was better. “Thank you for being a mean old witch with nothing better to do than bleed sick patients dry. I hope you find happiness in being a glorified _thief_.” Oh, _no_.  
  
Jaskier caught Geralt’s perplexed gaze and shook his head vigorously just as Phifre surged towards him, surprisingly fast. The Witcher stood quickly, placing a hand on her shoulder and offering her a smile - forced, the one that usually made him look like he was in some kind of pain. He pulled a coin purse out of his pocket.  
  
“My friend, he’s...well, he’s kind of a shit, really. Nothing to do about it, but I do apologize for him. Thirty...” Phifre narrowed her eyes and Geralt, rather than relenting and offering more, returned her glare, equally suspicious. “How much was it per session again?”  
  
The woman scoffed and seemed to be attempting quick maths in her head, but at the sight of the Witcher putting away his coin purse, huffed and shook her head. Eventually she agreed to a much more reasonable price. With the exchange done Phifre went to leave, but not before stopping at the door, eyeing Jaskier as she spoke.  
  
“Makes sense now, Witcher, why your friend here was cursed. Powerful one, too.” She reached into the pocket of her apron and tossed something small and black at Geralt, which he caught very carefully, and with a wince. “I learned nothing from this. Whoever it was, good on them. Won’t be a happy meeting when your paths do finally cross, I can assure you.”  
  
As she left Jaskier watched Geralt quickly pocket the thing - but not before he caught a glimpse of something black and thorny, small enough to fit in the palm of your hand, and he shot up further in the bed, looking scandalized.  
  
“Geralt, you need to tell me what the _hell_ that thing is and what that...charlatan meant by ‘cursed’? And _why_ did I just call her a charlatan? I had...mixed feelings about her, at the very least! Sh-she was an absolute - cheat! Okay, sure, but not...” his mouth seemed to move of its own accord, spewing thoughts that hadn’t yet surfaced in his mind.  
  
At the same time Geralt grabbed the collar of his shirt and dragged him close, too close, voice a deep rumble. “Jaskier, what the fuck was that display? Do you wish to be cursed into oblivion by every mage you encounter?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier embarrasses himself...a lot. Honestly not much is happening yet, but I wanted this to be a big ole slow-burn fic. Not even planning on having them realize the true nature of Jaskier’s curse until quite a bit later.
> 
> Things will pick up next chapter, though! A little kidnapping, a little violence, and a lot of unresolved sexual tension.

Geralt told Jaskier the events of the previous night, watching carefully as the bard’s face grew paler with each gruesome detail. His hand was still gripping the collar of Jaskier’s shirt but when he was certain the smaller man wouldn’t topple over again and somehow manage to brain himself, it loosened.  
  
“Can I see it?”  
  
Nodding, the Witcher released him and pulled the object out of his pocket, placing it gently in the palm of Jaskier’s outstretched hand. The brunette turned a bit green at the edges as he examined it, free hand absentmindedly draped over his neck as though it might try to hop back in at any given moment.  
  
“Gods. How vile. Yanking a...what is this again? Yikes. Certainly _not_ how I thought you’d end up on top of me.” A pause, followed shortly by a panicked, scandalized gasp, blue eyes meeting Geralt’s before glaring down at the ball in his hand. “Oh, bloody hell! _Geralt_! What I mean to say is - _is_ \- it’s not how I pictured your first time pinning m - “  
  
Geralt looked on in confusion as Jaskier clapped a hand over his own mouth, the panic intensifying as the words continued spilling out, muffled now by his palm but still horribly, mortifyingly explicit and so very _intelligible_ , ending with ‘fingers in my mouth.’  
  
Silence, followed by an uncomfortable cough from where Geralt was now seated again at the edge of the bed. He was used to Jaskier’s word vomit but this was...a new extreme. He reached a hand out and placed it on Jaskier’s ankle, still nestled under the covers. Trying to ground him. Keep him focused. “Jaskier. What’s going on? Tell me what you’re feeling right now.”  
  
The bard suddenly threw the ball across the room, ignoring the way it hit the wall with a wet splat, embedding itself in the soft wood panels. “Wh-why don’t you bloody tell _me_? First that poor - _loathsome_ \- healer and now...this curse, is it making me...” Another gasp, accusing eyes finding the Witcher’s once more. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “Is this a _sex curse_ , Geralt? Am I...oh, gods, I’ve heard of this sort of thing. Y-you have to have sex with the first person you see or - or you _die_ , Geralt! A fellow bard, it was cast on him by an enchantress who wanted him to - ”  
  
Geralt shook his head, raising a hand to quiet the bard abruptly. Better to nip this in the bud than let the other man’s imagination run rampant. “That’s not a real thing, Jaskier. No competent mage would allow such a simple loophole. Curses are...purposeful. Difficult to remove.” Jaskier raised an eyebrow, and the Witcher rolled his eyes. “And your friend was lying. Clearly. An unfortunate side effect of your profession.”  
  
“Then what could it possibly be? A curse that compels me to insult healers and want to fuck - no, _see_ , that’s not what I was going to _say_ , damn it!” A muffled, very dramatized sob as Jaskier flopped back onto the mountain of pillows. “Fix me, Geralt. I fear I won’t be able to continue like this much longer.”  
  
It was starting to become a bit clearer for Geralt, especially with the way Jaskier’s words seemed forced out of his mouth as though by an invisible hand. “Best guess is something intended to use your voice against you.” Pointed look there, thank you, Geralt. “More so than usual, anyway. It seems to be trying to get a rise out of those around you. It will get worse. We need to consult a real mage. I’d rather not involve...”  
  
Jaskier squinted at him from his cloud of down and fabric, looking a bit ridiculous with his hair a mess, linen undershirt askew. “Little miss sexpot? Yes, better not. You two will just leave me to rot so you can romp in her blasted magic tent. No, thank you.”  
  
Geralt didn’t mention that Yennefer had found a way to break the wish, and that since then they’d lost...something. Everything. Except Ciri.  
  
Instead he grunted and stood, grabbing Jaskier’s overshirt and tossing it at him. It hit the bard in the head with a soft _thwack_. “We’ll ask around, see if someone nearby can help with more than...” Geralt’s lips quirked ever so slightly. “Simple brews. Get dressed, and try to keep your mouth shut.” He yanked the thing out of the wall and slipped it into his pack before leaving a spluttering Jaskier to his own devices. 

♜ ♖ 

When he finally managed to pull on his doublet and stagger downstairs, a human wrecking ball wielding a lute and feeling very much like the gods had abandoned him, he saw Geralt was already leaning over the bar and interrogating its owner.  
  
“She’s not a mage, not really, but she’s something. Holed up in a cabin just beyond the swamp - dangerous, mind you. The lass and the swamp. We chased her out years ago for some nasty hex, though it’s nothing a Witcher can’t handle. Might know a thing or two about your curse.” The barkeep held out his hand expectantly, grinning as Geralt tossed him a few coins. “My thanks for getting that pompous ass out of my inn. The maudlin bullshit was getting old.”  
  
As they went to leave Jaskier turned to the man as he was wiping down the bar. Geralt was at the door already, too far to stop him - Jaskier apparently hell-bent on getting himself killed. “Tell Cynthia goodbye from me. I had a marvelous time, really. Our exploration of... _flexibility_ was something I’ll never forget.”  
  
Geralt looked back and forth between the two men, noting the way the barkeep’s face instantly turned bright red and lethal. Jaskier’s was pale, a bit shell-shocked, watching as the man came out from behind the bar.  
  
“You _swine_! My only daughter, I’ll have your head - “  
  
Before he could brandish the knife clenched in his meaty fingers, the man was toppling bonelessly to the ground as Geralt punched him. Not to hurt, necessarily. Just to knock him out long enough for them to evacuate the suddenly very hostile town. He dragged a stunned Jaskier along, cursing the bard even as they galloped out and away and towards the swamp.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Omg you guys, thank you so much for all the kudos and lovely comments - here is a big ole update to show my undying appreciation!
> 
> Bandits with beasts, oh my! Jaskier gets interrupted at least fifty times. Also Geralt says “damn it, Jaskier” far too much but I can’t help it, it’s my fave.

“Cynthia? Really?” Geralt gripped the reigns, smirking at the distressed noises of Jaskier attempting to stay seated behind him - they had to move fast until they reached the swamp, especially after the barkeep had decided to incite a small mob of angry husbands into shooting arrows at them as they left. “Just can’t help yourself, can you?”  
  
“Help myself? No, that - that’s the whole _point_! Have you been listening at all? Don’t get me wrong, it’s _very_ hard to tell, what with your proclivity for communicating exclusively through grunts and growls, but...yes, I said it. You growl, Geralt. Far too much.” Jaskier’s voice rose a few octaves as Roach leapt over a rock, holding onto the other man’s armor for dear life. “And Cynthia, lovely Cynthia. She showed me things, marvelous things about _pleasure_ and...did you know that if you - “  
  
Geralt cut him off. “Damn it, Jaskier, did you always talk this fucking much? We’re nearing the swamp. Keep this up and I’ll toss you to the first monster we see.”  
  
The bard let out a dramatic gasp, although he knew by now that Geralt’s threats were...mostly empty, anyway. It _was_ because of him that they were unable to stop for supplies in town, however, and now they’d have to make camp far earlier so Geralt could hunt for something to eat...so no, the Witcher wasn’t exactly thrilled with him at the moment.  
  
The swamp was massive and largely unexplored due to a very unfriendly population of rotfriends, drowners, swamp hags...the usual horrors that preferred noxious fumes and unlivable conditions. Apparently a group of bandits enjoyed prowling around and hunting the monsters for sport, too, which was just shit icing on an already shit cake.  
  
“You wouldn’t, you big softie. Anyway, Cynthia was really just filling a hole - well, I guess _I_ was the one doing the filling - “ the bard choked on his words a bit as he spoke. Geralt turned back to him and saw his face was bright pink, stubbornly holding his breath. The curse - though it was hard to distinguish things Jaskier would _actually_ say from things the malison forced him to say.  
  
He sighed, directing his attention back to the high reeds and mottled gray and blue trees that lined the entrance of the swamp. “Mm. Might as well let it run its course. I won’t carry you if you make yourself pass out.” Realizing he had just given the bard free reign to irritate him, he gruffly added, “Quietly.”  
  
The next few hours of daylight saw them picking carefully through treacherous swamp terrain, although Roach was excellent at sensing when there was about to be a footfall or break in the path. In short, their journey was going suspiciously smooth.  
  
Swaying in his seat behind Geralt, Jaskier spent the time mumbling _endlessly_ under his breath. Occasionally his voice would raise excitedly when an episode ended, but eventually he’d blurt out something crude, embarrassing, or downright insulting and grudgingly quiet back down.  
  
He’d tried singing, too, but it seemed the curse didn’t like that; his lyrics turned out rude and...well, he didn’t want to talk about it, but in this _gods-awful_ version, Geralt was thrusting far more than just elves onto shelves.  
  
It was hard to tell what time it was under the canopy of moss and leaves, but after what felt decades, Roach started slowing her gait a bit. Geralt gently nudged her to a stop and hopped off, boots squelching sickeningly in the mud.  
  
“Wha...what are you doing? Oh, we’re camping. Here? Truly?” Jaskier slipped off of Roach far less gracefully, just barely managing to keep his lute from getting swallowed by the sludge beneath them.  
  
Geralt pulled some oats from his pack and pet Roach as she nibbled happily on them. “She’s tired. And this is as good as its going to get. Believe me.”  
  
They set up camp on a slightly less wet, but still _far too wet_ patch just off the crude path they’d been following. The fire barely penetrated the thick fog that swirled around them, making their little sanctuary feel very claustrophobic.  
  
Geralt caught some anemic looking creature and was currently spit-roasting it, all brooding silence and intensity as he rotated their meal to keep it from burning.  
  
He handed the bard his portion, who took it, crinkled his nose and set it stubbornly down on the wood log he was sat upon. “Jaskier,” Geralt growled, a warning.  
  
“Yes, Geralt?”  
  
“Eat.”  
  
“No, thank you.”  
  
A groan. “You’re still mad. But you should eat.”  
  
Jaskier went to shake his head, but then seemed to have some sort of struggle with himself as he blurted out, “Yes! I am still very, very, very cross with you. You _hurt_ my _feelings_.” A very undignified noise as he tried to regain control. It seemed like several thoughts were trying to force their way out, all at once. “But I want to talk about it - no, I _don’t_ want to talk about how I - not _yet_ , not like this. Geralt, please have mercy and change the subject, I beg of you.”  
  
He sagged a bit, drained from the effort - Geralt grunted, looking somewhat uncomfortable. There was hardly anything Jaskier was adverse to talking about with him - or _at_ him. It was...unpleasant. For whatever reason, Geralt did not like it.  
  
“Seems it’s getting worse. Are you holding your breath again?” Jaskier shook his head stubbornly, despite the fact that his cheeks were puffed out, looking very foolish. “Damn it, Jaskier, I could give a shit what you say. Curse or not. I won’t be provoked so easily. Now breathe. And eat.”  
  
And so he did, grudgingly picking up his abandoned meal and examining it before taking a tentative bite - knowing how Geralt felt about sharing food, it was a nice gesture, although he couldn’t help pulling a face as he chewed. “It’s very bad, and I hate it. A bold choice, keeping the swamp taste so...pungent.”  
  
“I’m not your damn personal chef.” But the bard was looking at him, helpless and apologetic, and he sighed. “Oh. Um. It’s...fine.” And it seemed ridiculously hard for Geralt to say, jaw clenching and unclenching. “Finish up and get some rest, we’ll head out first thing.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Hours later, Jaskier was tossing and turning on the flimsy bedroll, cringing at the way the soft, muddy ground squished under him with each subtle movement. Geralt had fallen asleep ages ago, or at least pretended to - his back was to the smaller man, apparently having no trouble sleeping in a place that smelled like garbage. Like garbage’s garbage.  
  
The fire was starting to go out as he picked his way through the camp to find somewhere to relieve himself. It had taken buckets of water to wash the taste of the...he wanted to say _swamp squirrel?_ out of his mouth and now he was paying the price with a nice little midnight jaunt through a veritable hellscape.  
  
Everything was eerily quiet. He hummed a little to break the silence, cautiously eyeing the bush he had deemed safe enough to piss in. “If there are any monsters in there please, _please_ leave me intact for the ladies, at the very least. That’s all I ask.”  
  
No response, of course. Good, always good. When he was done he went to head back to camp when the moonlight peeking through the trees shifted and something caught his eye; the corpse of a very big, very bloated and horrifying _thing_ , sticking out of his designated bush. Riddled with arrows, but killed recently judging by the rivulets of fresh blood pouring out of its wounds. Among...other fluids.  
  
Jaskier yelped and stumbled back in shock, “I’m sorry, I am _so_ sorry to have...well, you’re dead, so I guess you don’t really care but still, I’m - ”  
  
The thing remained silent - dead, beady eyes watched as Jaskier’s monologue was cut off by a large hand snaking up and wrapping around his throat in a bruising hold.  
  
He immediately started yelling but the body behind him only shook with mean laughter, another impossibly strong hand immobilizing his arm as he went to grab the dagger in his boot.  
  
“Talking to yourself, are you, little man?” A human, of _course_ Jaskier would manage to attract humans, possibly the most dangerous thing that could be lurking in a swamp like this, above all else. His voice was hot and heavy in the bard’s ear, chuckling as Jaskier buckled under the bone-crushing grip on his wrist. “What’s a fancy little fellow like yourself doing in a place like this, eh? Besides pissing on monsters.” Another bawdy laugh, the hand around his trachea relenting just enough to allow him to speak.  
  
Now that the rushing and ringing in his ears had subsided he was aware of other sounds, further off. Metal on metal. Geralt was awake, Jaskier just had to live _long enough_ -  
  
“Call me little again and my friend over there with the two massive swords will ensure that you’re half my size when he’s done with you. Quarter size if you kill me. Surely you saw him - white hair, eyes like fire? Even a ruffian like you knows what _that_ means. Perhaps the name Geralt of Rivia might ring a be - ”  
  
He choked as the grip tightened once more and his attacker spun him around. He was very large and certainly no stranger to battle - one bloodthirsty eye observed him coolly, the other obscured by a black eyepatch. And with Jaskier spewing insults and taunts like there was no tomorrow, his plan to live long enough to reach Geralt was looking rather grim.  
  
“Aye, aye. A Witcher. Been tracking you lot since the moment you set foot in our swamp. Good thing, too. Let us take the proper...precautions for dealing with his kind.”  
  
As if on cue an ear-splitting roar ripped through the swamp, the force of it sending chills down Jaskier’s spine. Black spots were starting to creep into his vision and he decided he didn’t want to wait to find out what those ‘proper precautions’ were - in a last-ditch effort he kneed the man in the groin, taking grateful gulps of air as the hand released his throat. The distraction allowed him just enough time to break free, making a run for the camp, for Geralt, because Geralt meant safety.  
  
He saw the dying light of the fire and a flash of white and silver, followed by something black and very putrid-looking, but didn’t count on stepping right into a hidden hole of thick, muddy water - he instantly lost his footing, seeing stars as the man came up behind him and slammed him face-first into a tree, twisting his arms behind his back and pinning them there.  
  
“Look, if you stop now I’ll put in a good word with - _ow_ , careful, these are the hands of an artist, you brute!”  
  
“You think you’re clever, bard? Don’t seem to know when to keep your mouth shut. I quite like that.” He punctuated his words by tightening his grip, making Jaskier cry out, fighting a wave of nausea as the bones of his wrists ground together sickeningly. “Come, let’s see how your _friend_ is holding up.”  
  
This was certainly turning into a situation, Jaskier realized. The man wasn’t your average thief - he was armed to the teeth, now using his other hand to hold a sword to Jaskier’s side as he pushed him towards the clearing.  
  
And yes, this was _absolutely_ a situation. Geralt was standing between a man and a massive beast, apparently at some kind of standstill. The bandit to his left was clutching a bleeding arm, although it looked like he’d managed to give as good as he got - an arrow was sticking out of Geralt’s side. There was a strange amulet on the bandit’s chest, glowing softly in the dim light - a similar gem was crudely hammered into a chain wrapped around the monster’s neck. And no, Jaskier didn’t know what it meant, but he knew it wasn’t good.  
  
The beast seethed as Jaskier and his captor approached the scene, but didn’t attack. When the Witcher saw them he remained stoic as ever, although the grip on his sword tightened imperceptibly. “Are you hurt?”  
  
Jaskier shook his head, trying stubbornly to wriggle free but instantly freezing as he felt the cool tip of the sword tease the soft, vulnerable skin of his abdomen. “No. Well, not physically, but _emotionally_ \- this man won’t stop calling me little, and I desecrated a dead...thing, and - ”  
  
“A simple yes or no, Jaskier.” Geralt said, looking a bit disgusted because he wasn’t sure what the last part meant and was doubly sure he did not want to find out. He eyed the monster. “Odd magic for a couple of bandits. Call off your beast, let the bard go, and I’ll think about forgetting the whole thing.”  
  
Jaskier felt the man behind him snort. “Careful, Witcher. Shouldn’t assume you’ve got the upper hand when you haven’t seen all our cards.”  
  
Geralt scowled, keeping a careful eye on the weapon pointed at Jaskier’s middle and taking a step forward - as he did, however, his leg collapsed out from under him. First one, and then the other. Jaskier watched in horror as he fell - at the same time the man he’d been fighting sheathed his weapon, smirking.  
  
“Geralt, what’s going on? What did you do to him? _Geralt_ , say something!”  
  
The Witcher struggled valiantly against whatever was gradually incapacitating him, raising his hands to blast the men away but realizing he’d lost control of those, too. He could hear Jaskier’s panicked yelling and managed to tilt his head to lock eyes with the bard, but only for a moment before the second bandit crouched low in front of him. He yanked the arrow out of the Witcher’s side with a weak spurt of blood and dangled it in his face, a cruel beacon of arrogance.  
  
“No use, Witcher. Poison. Nice bit of paralysis to keep you from doing anything tricksy. Looks like we got the dosin’ right, Ed.”  
  
Geralt groaned and Jaskier’s heart dropped, hardly noticing as the man holding him - _Ed_ , his new least favorite name - forced him to the ground and started tying his hands up behind his back.  
  
“Don’t worry your little head, bard. Poison wasn’t meant to kill him. Can’t say the same for...well, everything else.”  
  
Jaskier came back to himself and thrashed around, catching the man in the shin with his leg. Ed hardly flinched. “Unhand me, you...you reprobate!”  
  
The other bandit was searching their packs. He grabbed Jaskier’s lute and Geralt’s hefty coin purse, grinning at his partner. “Boss’ll be pleased about this. Shall we feed their horse to the beast, then?”  
  
Gods, _Roach._ Jaskier sobbed, choking on a vile mouthful of mud. “No, don’t you touch her, you _can’t_ \- ” A boot shoved his face further into the muck, silencing him.  
  
“Nah, best leave her with her master. He was very clear. No body count, just the bard. And that bastard won’t be up to chasing us for a long while, and not ‘til we’re long gone.”  
  
That was the last thing the bard in question heard before pain exploded behind his eyes as Ed cracked him in the back of the head with something blunt. He saw Geralt’s prone form, covered in mud and motionless, before darkness took him. 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here’s another chapter! I feel like Jaskier’s subplot has gotten a little out of hand lmao, but next chapter will include a valiant rescue and some romance. I was apparently NOT joking when I said this was gonna be a long ass fic!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Jaskier has a concussion and Geralt has to use his powerful sense of smell in a disgusting trash swamp.

Jaskier woke in a floundering haze surrounded by pitch blackness. His head throbbed terribly, and when he probed at the source of the pain, found it damp and oozing. Prodding it in a tender spot resulted in him pitching over and emptying the contents of his stomach on the floor, nausea roiling in his gut.  
  
“That’s not ideal.” Jaskier burbled to no one in particular, frowning at the way his voice slurred as though he’d been at the bar all night. He hadn’t, as far as he could remember, but he felt groggy and even in total darkness, the room was spinning. Some sort of brain contusion, then.  
  
He remembered Geralt suffering similarly once, after a hunt - Jaskier hadn’t noticed until he’d burst into the washroom with some celebratory drinks and found the man slowly drowning in his own bath and _yes_ , it had been a tiny bit hilarious after he’d somehow managed to lug him out but that was when they were safe in an inn, with a healer on hand, not...  
  
And why was it so bloody dark? He reached a hand out blindly to feel the limitations of this new location but it simply grasped at empty air. An experimental kick resulted in the same, but did alert him to the fact that his ankles were shackled together.  
  
He wiggled around a bit, seeing just how vast his range of motion was, when the sound his bonds made brought back bits and pieces of what had happened. Metal on metal, as grating now as it had been that...night, was it? Yes, they’d been camping, they were ambushed. By bandits.  
  
But if this was the aftermath of their fight, things clearly hadn’t ended well. The fuzzy bits at the middle and end were infuriating. He kicked out again, hoping at least that a familiar grunt would let him know he wasn’t in this situation alone.  
  
No such luck.  
  
“Geralt? Hello-o-o? The name...Ed...I’m feeling like there might be an Ed here with me?” Jaskier started inching around the space, using his hands to feel about. The floor was hard but dusty. Dirt, somewhere underground. Geralt would be so very proud of his detective work.  
  
“Maybe you’re a spirit reaching out from beyond, _Ed_. Well, have you seen my companion? Very handsome, very brooding specimen, about nine feet tall...no, that’s not _right_.” the bard giggled at his own mistake, but then shook his head in an attempt to ground himself, realizing he was far more delirious than he’d originally thought.  
  
His fingers brushed what felt like the iron bars of a prison cell and he used them as support as he attempted to stand. Crawling haphazardly in the dark like some sort of wounded, bloated tick was fun at first but now he was mildly aware of a biting pain in his wrists and oh yes, the powerful urge to get out of whatever fresh hell he’d found himself trapped in.  
  
“Yes, Jaskier, you _can_ do this. Just stand up, find Geralt. Get out of this place. Easy peasy.”  
  
Jaskier had just managed to steady himself, holding on for dear life, when the cell door screamed open. The force of it rattled the bars of his cage and sent him tumbling back down, all of his painstaking progress lost.  
  
“Come on, little bard. Time to have a bit of fun.”  
  
A hand suddenly ripped something from his head and he found himself staring at a pair of leather-clad legs, reeling a bit as the light sent shockwaves of pain through his skull. He squinted and realized belatedly that he’d been blindfolded the entire time. How embarrassing.  
  
He had no time to think as the hand was now yanking him up from the floor, allowing him a tiny glimpse of his cell - and it _was_ underground, he’d been right, take that Witcher senses - before he was thrown out of it.  
  
Jaskier stumbled, catching the wall and leaning heavily on it. The man leered at him, brandishing iron cuffs, and there was something familiar about his black eyepatch and oily, toothless smile...  
  
It all came back fast, too fast, and Jaskier found himself scrambling backwards, cornflower blue eyes wild and terrified. The man, _Ed_ \- not a friendly spirit but an awful, horrid bandit, which was a far too mind-blowing betrayal for his addled brain to process - approached him slowly. Confidently. It was degrading, as if Jaskier were nothing but prey, and he the predator.  
  
He did have one last card up his sleeve, however. As long as he continued this game of cat and mouse for a moment, he could play it just right and -  
  
“Stay back! I have a knife hidden in my boot and I’m going to brandish it, pray I don’t have to stab you, and run away now, so just - oh, _fuck_ me.” The words spilled clumsily from his lips before he’d even begun to reach for the weapon.  
  
But it was there when he did; the dagger Geralt had gifted him years ago. He silently blessed the stupidity of bandits, pulling it out just as the man charged and tackled him to the ground.  
  
Jaskier could have sworn he blacked out for a moment as his injured head smacked the floor, but he still somehow managed to shove the dagger blindly into his attacker, cringing as he did. Ed howled and instinctively grabbed at the hilt sticking out of his shoulder. The momentary distraction was just that however, and upon seeing Jaskier starting to scramble out from under him, got hold of the bard’s ankle and yanked him cruelly back.  
  
And the bandit’s face was manic, terrifying. Ed removed the blade with a wince and secured his grip on the struggling man beneath him, using Geralt’s dagger, his own weapon, to keep Jaskier still. “I’m growing tired of this, you insolent prick. Boss’ll get pissy with me if I touch these,” the tip of the blade dragged slowly across Jaskier’s neck, “but everything else is free game, far as I’m concerned.”  
  
The dagger started toying with the buttons of his tunic and Jaskier whimpered involuntarily, flinching from the cold touch of steel. It didn’t bite through flesh, however, and after a painstaking moment, the weight of the man bearing down on him was removed.  
  
“Now, now, Ed. How did I know your temper would get the better of you?”  
  
Dazed, Jaskier opened his eyes once more and saw his attacker being subdued by two other bandits. He backed away a bit further and bumped into something; blinking up at the bandit whose boot his head was now resting on, barely noticing as two strong arms hooked under his and hoisted him up.  
  
Before he could breathe his thanks he felt the certain click of cuffs about his wrists. Despite himself he groaned miserably. “Honestly, _what_ the bloody hell is going on? Have I stumbled into some sort of...bandit infighting situation?”  
  
A chuckle. “I was right to expect more of the bard who made the White Wolf famous with his ballads. My men described you as some scared little mouse.” It was one of the men securing Ed who spoke, gesturing to the wound in his underling’s shoulder with an amused smirk. Once Ed was cuffed and carted off - kicking and screaming a concerning amount, if Jaskier was honest - the man let out a heavy, disappointed breath through his nose. “It’s so hard to find truly loyal associates these days.”  
  
It was an understatement to say that Jaskier’s head was reeling. And no, the trauma to his skull was only a small part of that. He struggled against his new, tighter bonds experimentally and frowned. “I love this dramatic grandstanding, really, I do. But you hurt my _friend_ , and I need to know if he’s _okay_ , and this is all very scary and - ”  
  
A punch to the gut from the supposed bandit leader. Gods, what a confusing situation. His keen ability to read a room was rendered completely useless here, it seemed.  
  
“Do not speak out of turn, bard. It was your head that the contract demanded, and for a hefty bounty, at that. But we don’t kill needlessly. Your friend seems...hardy. He’s probably alive.”  
  
Jaskier scoffed. “Oh, you’re _honorable_ bandits? Wonderful.” Another punch that left him gasping for air.  
  
“The only reason you are alive is because your reputation precedes you. I’m still going to kill you. For the money, obviously. But not before you use your famed talents to compose a few ballads for me. About a fearsome bandit king.”  
  
The bard went to laugh at the very silly request when he realized that the bandit leader...sorry, bandit ‘ _king _’ was deadly serious, and apparently talking about himself. _In third person_. He continued blathering on about how he’d always wanted the world to know of his exploits and how if it could be done for a Witcher it could be done for him, blah, blah, _blah_...  
  
And while the situation was ridiculous, it was at the same time terrifying, especially because his ballads and singing in general had recently been _tainted_ by a curse most foul. Any hope he had of charming his way out of this scenario was gone with the curse looming over his head, waiting to use his own tongue against him  
  
As he was towed away to some unknown destination in the underground hideaway, Jaskier had a sinking feeling that he probably wouldn’t live to see morning. Unless this absolute psychopath enjoyed songs about getting ploughed by a grumpy man with white hair, he was completely and utterly screwed.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Geralt woke and instantly reached for his sword as if no time had passed and he was still in the middle of battle. He cursed at the nasty tug in his lower abdomen and hissed when he found there was no sword beside him. Reaching for the silver one on his back proved just as painful and fruitless.  
  
In the same breath a soft hand touched upon his shoulder, light as a feather but placating. Firm. As he regained his senses he found himself staring into a pair of deep, curious brown eyes.  
  
“Who are you?” he growled, shoving the girl’s hand away. He made to stand but another pang had him gritting his teeth and staggering. He used a tree to steady himself and as his eyes darted wildly back and forth, realized he was still in the goddamn swamp.  
  
And fuck. Jaskier.  
  
The strange girl was standing at Roach’s side, eyeing him carefully. Geralt eyed her right back.  
  
Her cloak was similar in color to the fog that swirled around them. Easy to move about unnoticed, which meant she spent a lot of time in the swamp. Possibly lived in it.  
  
Roach nickered happily and didn’t seem to mind her touch. The girl wasn’t a threat. And the wound just below his ribs felt far better than it should have, meaning she had helped him. And that she was a mage, or at least knew basic healing magic.  
  
“You’re the one they cast out of town. What’s your name?” Geralt concluded, breaking the tense silence. She looked a bit shocked at the recognition but nodded slowly after a beat.  
  
“Name’s Emmi. Found you bleeding out. I don’t usually help strangers in the swamp, but she vouched for you.” A nod to Roach, who huffed and stamped her feet. He noticed his swords were tied neatly to her saddlebag.  
  
Geralt hadn’t expected the feared witch to be so young, only a few years older than Ciri, but he didn’t have time to worry about that now. Jaskier wasn’t here, which meant...  
  
“I was traveling with someone. Loud. Hard to miss. Have you seen him?”  
  
Emmi shrank further into her cloak. “I haven’t, but...the bandits around here, sometimes they take prisoners. I don’t know where, but I hear their screams under the swamp. You shouldn’t go, you’re hardly healed. I only stopped the bleeding, mended your insides. The rest of the damage - ”  
  
He abruptly stepped away, not hearing the rest of what she had to say. She hadn’t moved him, or hadn’t been able to, which would make tracking fairly easy. Hopefully.  
  
Geralt breathed in deeply, following the scent he’d complained about so many times during their travels - citrus and saffron, a touch of smoke after half a night of sleeping by a campfire. He followed it to a tree, his hands grazing an indent in its trunk. A bit of blood left behind. He realized as he touched the stain that this was the first time he’d had to use his mutation to track Jaskier.  
  
Before he continued the hunt he took his swords and put on his armor. He turned to Emmi, trying to fight back the anger in his voice. “I need you to care for my horse while I’m gone. I’ll pay as soon as I get my coin back.”  
  
“I’ll only do this for her. For Roach. I’m sorry to say that I doubt you’ll return.”_ _


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this chapter a teeeeeeny bit early because I already had it typed out and must attend a very important dog birthday tonight!
> 
> So sorry to subject you all to my terrible poetry, I highly doubt Jaskier would rhyme head with head ever but...double meanings cancel each other out so it doesn’t count! That’s how poetry works, right?

Emmi had given Geralt directions to her cottage before he took off. Well, sort of. It was nestled deep in the swamp, apparently, and she’d told him to ‘follow the white toadstools on the path least traveled.’ It was annoyingly vague, but he understood the precaution she was taking in case the bandits captured him. Smart girl.  
  
He crashed through the swamp, following Jaskier’s scent like a mad dog. They’d stopped to rest in a small clearing where he found Jaskier’s tattered doublet and the remains of a fire. He picked up a small vial beside its charred remnants and sniffed, crinkling his nose in disgust. Drugs. A sedative. Keep the bard out cold, make the ride easier. He must have woken up here and struggled...  
  
“What the fuck did you get yourself into, Jaskier?” Geralt touched his hand to the indents in the mud and frowned. These men had clearly been after only one thing; _his_ bard. He vaguely remembered hearing, as the paralytic and blood loss slowly pulled him under, something about taking Jaskier to their boss.  
  
So that meant they were headed to a secret base, but where? They knew this place well - had even enslaved its beasts to do their bidding - which meant their hideout was somewhere in the swamp. For that to be the case, it only made sense that it would be underground. Less obvious. Less vulnerable to monster attacks and prying eyes if they only had one well-hidden way in and out, too.  
  
When Emmi said she heard screams under the swamp he assumed it was just a figure of speech, but now he wished he had asked her to show him exactly where she’d heard them. He was angry enough to dig his way into the hideout and drop in on those bastards, if that’s what it took. And the clock was against him, against Jaskier. He pushed people to violence with his words well enough without the help of that fucking curse.  
  
Geralt had to hurry.  
  
The path remained easy to follow a bit longer but when he neared the northwest corner of the swamp, things became more complicated. As though someone had gone to great lengths to cover their tracks.  
  
Footsteps went in several different directions, some going in circles while others were hastily covered up with reeds. He knelt in the mud and focused hard on the tracks until the real ones made themselves known to him.  
  
“Fuckers.” he snarled, irritated that these idiots thought they could shake him so easily.  
  
He followed them until they stopped short at a large expanse of water, obscured by reeds. The surface bubbled thickly and the fumes that wafted about on top of it were a putrid green. Poison.  
  
Geralt approached the edge of the lake and was about to use his senses to see if anything was amiss when he heard a twig snap. His sword was drawn before he heard the distinctive twang of a bow - he deflected the arrow just in time, whirling around and eyeing the trees suspiciously.  
  
For a moment, everything was still. And then he saw it - movement behind a tree to his left, and rolled out of the way as a second arrow came flying at him. He didn’t give his assailant time to nock another and charged through the underbrush at full speed, leaping at the cloaked figure who dropped his bow in terror.  
  
“ _Holy shit_ , please don’t kill me!”  
  
Geralt grabbed the man and threw him against a tree, swinging his sword and stopping right at his neck. “You. Tell me how the fuck to get in. Before I start cutting things off.”  
  
The man was tall and lanky, trembling as he eyed the steel blade at his throat. “G-get in where? There’s...there’s nothing here, I swear!”  
  
The Witcher growled and put more pressure on the blade, drawing blood. “You’re a bad liar. And you...oh. That was easy.” He released his opponent - and that was certainly an overstatement - as he instantly threw his hands up in surrender.  
  
“Boss’ll kill me if he finds out, sir. Please don’t tell him it was me.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “I’ll kill him first. Or you, if you don’t show me the way. Right now.”  
  
The man eyed his sword fearfully as he headed towards the water, hands still in the air to prove that he wasn’t going to try anything. Geralt stood menacingly behind him as he knelt down at the water’s edge and turned over a small, muddy stone.  
  
The sound of a mechanism groaning and water rushing filled the clearing as the bed of the lake seemed to split in half, revealing a trap door.  
  
“What kind of bandits use this much fucking magic?” Geralt asked, eyeing it suspiciously.  
  
“No magic, sir. Just a switchy thing that drains the water, keepin’ it at bay until we pull the lever insi - “  
  
The man was backing away with each word but Geralt cut him off by grabbing the collar of his shirt and dragging him along towards the entrance of the hideout. “Sorry I asked. Your ‘boss’ took something of mine, and now you’re going to lead me to him.”

♜ ♖

“ _The Witcher took him to bed, gave him epic head  
  
And they made love all morning and night  
  
While the bandit king’s head looked on with dread  
  
Right beside them, impaled on a spike -_ aah!”

Jaskier yelped, holding up his lute defensively as a blade whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the wall behind him. The leader of the bandits - who the bard had learned was very appropriately called Cynric the _Cruel_ \- was draped across a crudely carved throne, regarding Jaskier with disgust and balancing another dagger in the palm of his hand. He had an arsenal of dangerous pointy things laid out before him and a nasty habit of almost _spearing_ Jaskier with them each time he sang.  
  
And Jaskier was seated in the middle of what could only be described as an underground, bandit-y banquet hall, terrified and mortified at the same time. They’d freed his hands so he could play, which was unfortunate because each strum of his lute inspired another bout of gods-awful lyrics.  
  
“I’ve had just about enough of this, bard. If I hear one more word about the bloody Witcher’s _cock_ I’ll start taking fingers, one by one.”  
  
“I _told_ you, you miscreant, I’ve been cursed! I can’t control what comes out of my mouth, it’s this whole thing that we were on our way to fix when you - “ Another dagger launched at him, this one pinning the material of his white undershirt to the chair.  
  
Cynric stood, looking to a group of his men who were seated at another table and playing a game of cards. _They_ had a nasty habit of booing whenever Jaskier opened his mouth, which was just hurtful. “What do we think, boys? What will motivate this foul-mouthed prick into doing as he’s told?”  
  
One of the bandits - Jaskier had recognized him instantly, from the night of the kidnapping; Ed’s bow-wielding partner - grinned maliciously, pulling an amulet from his pocket.  
  
And Jaskier recognized that too. Oh, shit.  
  
“Beast’s hungry by now. Had nothin’ t’ eat but scraps since our last bounty. I’m sure she’ll get the bastard singing a different tune.” The bandit sneered at Jaskier. “If not, at least his death’ll be more entertaining than this shite.”  
  
And their insane, tyrannical leader just _loved_ that idea, a twisted grin contorting his ruddy features. Jaskier tried reasoning with the man as he sent for the monster. “You’re clearly...um, an intelligent, _reasonable_ man. No, that’s bollocks. B-but surely you can understand the severity of a mage’s curse, you know, it’s simply out of my - ”  
  
He was interrupted by a familiar, but no less hair-raising roar, and watched as three bandits lead the beast into the hall by the chain around her neck. They secured the chain with a hook on the wall and Jaskier scrambled out of his seat, the chair flipping over with him as she approached slowly, deliberately. He cowered behind the chair, holding his lute tightly to his chest.  
  
Cynric whistled and the beast sat obediently, less than a foot from Jaskier’s flimsy chair barricade. The amulet was around his neck now, its eerie glow tinged with yellow by the torches lining the walls.  
  
“Sing now, bard. And choose your words carefully. If I don’t like it, rest assured she won’t either. She’s very good at keeping her prey alive. Long enough for...well, as many songs as you have arms and legs, I guess.”  
  
Jaskier gulped, slipping the strap of the lute back on with shaking hands and oh gods, he was going to _die_ here, like this, _horribly_ and singing absolute filth about the man he’d never gotten the chance to -  
  
Suddenly, a blur of black and white burst into the banquet hall, sending a blast of energy at the bandits who reacted immediately, drawing their weapons. A few of them were thrown back, slamming into the wall with force enough to shake the whole structure. Debris from the ceiling rained down on them, threatening collapse.  
  
Jaskier peered out from behind the chair and the sight instantly filled him with hope - Geralt of Rivia, seething as he stood with his sword drawn and what looked to be a...very skinny, scared man in tow.  
  
“Geralt!” Jaskier shouted excitedly, scrambling to his feet when the beast growled dangerously at him. He froze, torn between making a run for it and possibly getting torn to shreds.  
  
His captor chose for him. “Another step, Witcher, and I’ll have him desiccated before your eyes. Surely you don’t want that, after coming all this way to rescue your...whatever he is to you. Whore, maybe? If his songs are anything to go by.” He looked at the small man cowering behind Geralt in disgust. “Kill the Witcher and the traitor. And someone bring me the bard’s head when the beast is done with him. I need proof that he’s dead.”  
  
Too many things happened at once after that. Jaskier was back on the floor, hands scrabbling around for something to defend himself with when he remembered their little game of ‘pin the tail on the bard’ - he yanked a small axe out of the wall and managed to roll clumsily out of the way as the beast lunged at him. He was about to run when he caught a glimpse of the gem in the thing’s collar.  
  
Cynric grabbed for the amulet on his chest, pointing at Geralt who, seeing that Jaskier had managed to evade the monster’s jaws, was now cutting down his men left and right. Jaskier cursed himself for his own stupidity as he, rather than making a break for it, charged at the beast, driving his weapon into the gem and cracking it. With what sounded like a soft sigh, the energy that powered it seeped out and evaporated.  
  
The beast shuddered, turning to him with beady black eyes and baring its jagged, razor-sharp teeth.  
  
“Kill him! Kill _someone_ , you useless thing, or I’ll kill you myself!” the self-proclaimed bandit king was screaming. The monster’s eyes darted to him and it snarled. And lunged.  
  
Cynric’s screams echoed around the hall as the beast tore him apart. The sound of it was awful and Jaskier had to look away from the carnage, feeling sick. He spotted Geralt as he held his blade up to the remaining bandits, daring them to move. When he caught Jaskier’s eye his lips quirked ever so slightly and the bard, absolutely exhausted but _alive_ , blessedly, somehow, smiled and -  
  
“Jaskier, _move_!”  
  
The Witcher was suddenly sprinting towards him and Jaskier tore his eyes away from Geralt’s now horrified expression just in time to see the greatsword swinging down upon him, biting into the junction between his neck and left shoulder.  
  
And the bard couldn’t hold back his screams, having to watch in horror as the man, the one who’d helped kidnap and torment him, sawed the blade back and forth mercilessly through skin and muscle, trying to cut him in _half_ , pain unbearable, the tang of iron filling his mouth as he involuntarily bit his tongue -  
  
“Boss’s death don’t mean dog _shit_ to me - if you useless bastards won’t claim the bounty then I will!” Each syllable was punctuated by Jaskier’s ragged gasps as the brute applied more pressure to the sword, sinking the blade in deeper, deeper. “ _All_ to myself!”  
  
And that seemed to be enough for the rest of the idiots under Cynric’s command to completely lose it because they were suddenly fighting each other, screaming about who would claim the bounty. _Killing_ each other. Jaskier sobbed as a blade lodged itself in his attacker’s skull and the man fell, dead instantly, his own sword wrenching free with a sickening squelch. Jaskier’s hand flew to the open, pulsing wound, blood spilling over his fingers and soaking his blouse.  
  
Before his knees could give out someone caught him. His shoulder screamed in protest at the movement and he weakly tried wriggling free when his vision focused long enough for him to make out Geralt’s face hovering above him, jaw clenched tightly and covered in blood, surrounded by a halo of white hair - like some sort of fucked up angel. He shoved a bundle of cloth over the wound and placed the bard’s hand over it, guiding him to push down hard, _too_ hard.  
  
“Keep pressure. I’m going to pick you up. Don’t you fucking pass out, Jaskier.”  
  
He managed to nod, but as soon as he was hoisted up the entire world shifted dangerously and he felt wetness bloom under his fingers as his entire body tensed.  
  
Geralt ran, dodging swords and kicking a bandit in the chest who got in his way, sending the man flying. The cloth under Jaskier’s hand was drenched now and he tried to tear it away but a low growl, rumbling in Geralt’s chest and tickling his cheek, stopped him.  
  
“Fuck, Geralt, I’ve lost too much blood, haven’t I?”  
  
“Shut up.”  
  
“But _Geralt_ , it’s - there’s no _way_ I’ll...”  
  
“You’re not going to die, Jaskier.” Watery blue eyes shot him a look, and how Jaskier still managed to look so sardonic while bleeding out was beyond him. “You’re _not_. So shut up and don’t pass out.”  
  
Surprisingly, he did, trying desperately to do as Geralt said and stay conscious. He wanted to tell the man it was kind of a silly request, that he didn’t really have control over that sort of thing, but Geralt stumbled over something - a branch, maybe - and the thought was lost to searing pain.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gooooodness you guys are killing me with all of the wonderful comments, I can’t express how happy they make me, thank you so much!!
> 
> Today’s update is a lil short but I promise tomorrow’s will be loooong and filled with lots of fluffy goodness! Kinda wanted to keep it separate from all the icky badness.
> 
> Who else is excited for them to get out of the swamp so I can stop trying to find new ways to say _mud _?__

“Fuck.” Geralt hissed, ducking under branches and moving through the troublesome swamp terrain with far less care than was necessary. Jaskier babbled weakly and incoherently in his arms - soft, unfocused blue eyes alternated between peering up at him and squeezing shut at every little bump. But he hadn’t passed out yet. Hadn’t released pressure. That was all that mattered at this point. Made their situation only marginally less fucked. Geralt felt the sticky wetness of Jaskier’s blood, seeping through the thick material of his armor and soaking his forearm. He ran faster.  
  
They didn’t have time to get to a village, where they’d usually find a surgeon or mage healer to make quick work of a gaping wound such as this. Emmi hadn’t been able to heal him fully - and today’s activity had certainly torn his own wound back open, he noticed now that he wasn’t busy fighting for his and Jaskier’s lives - but she was his only hope at this point. He had no gear, no proper tools for sewing up such a vicious wound. If she could just stop the bleeding, that would buy him enough time.  
  
“Just need to find the damn place.” he rumbled, and Jaskier made a noise that sounded like a giggle, followed by a broken gasp.  
  
“Tickles. When you talk.” Jaskier clarified, although Geralt hadn’t asked - had actually specifically demanded that the bard not speak. To conserve energy. Not because it felt wrong to hear his voice sound like _that_ \- small, pinched with pain.  
  
“Don’t speak. Focus.”  
  
The smaller man quieted down and Geralt scanned the path he was currently standing on. Emmi had said something about white toadstools...the path least traveled. Fucking nonsense that didn’t help him at all, especially considering he hadn’t seen a single toadstool, white or otherwise, since he’d set foot in this godsforsaken place.  
  
He decided the best course of action would be to step off the path and try his hand at navigating the reeds and water-logged underbrush until something stood out. It was a gamble he wasn’t sure he wanted to take, but with the blessed still silence, he knew he’d be able to find something with his Witcher senses -  
  
Silence. It was too quiet, and Geralt looked down in time to see Jaskier’s eyes flicker back into his head. The hand keeping pressure on the cloth buried in his shoulder fell limp - heavy with blood, it detached itself from where it had been staunching the flow, keeping Jaskier _alive_ , and fell with a wet smack.  
  
The effect was instanteous, as though a dam had broken. Blood started gushing from the injury, soaking Geralt’s hands as he cursed and dropped to the floor, using his knee to prop the bard up and keep him out of the mud. He went to grab the cloth again but thought better of it, now that it was floating in a small puddle of vile green swamp water.  
  
“Fucking - _Jaskier_. Wake up!” Geralt shouted, smacking the bard lightly on the cheek. No response. Fuck. He quickly went about taking off his armor so he could access the soft linen shirt he wore underneath. It could serve as a tourniquet, at least for the time being.  
  
Red mingled with the puddles and mud deposits beneath them and there was a very uncharacteristic tremor in Geralt’s hands as he tore the sleeve from his tunic.  
  
He wrapped it tightly around the wound and continued speaking to - or rather, cursing at - Jaskier, watching as the bard’s head lolled to the side. He was too pale.  
  
Geralt also noticed the way his arm, the one attached to the injury, seemed lifeless. Like a doll’s. Even when Jaskier had been awake and somewhat lucid it dangled limply in the air, bouncing as Geralt ran. He wouldn’t know for sure, though, not until if - until _when_ the bard woke up, and there was no time to dwell on it now.  
  
“Jaskier! If you don’t wake up I will drown your precious fucking lute in the - “  
  
Suddenly Jaskier’s eyes were fluttering open and all Geralt felt was relief, though it was immediately chased away by dread, cold in the pit of his stomach as he saw that the other man’s lips were tinged with blue, chest heaving. Geralt draped his chest piece over Jaskier to keep him warm, abandoning his spaulders as he whisked the bard back up into his arms.  
  
“Keep talking.” Geralt said, grunting with effort as he started making his way through the mud, having to wrench his boots free with every step as it gave way into a sort of shallow, sludge-filled lake. He used his senses to look for small footprints, some evidence of Emmi, but the muck beneath them was so thick it swallowed up everything within seconds.  
  
“What happened t-to shutting up?”  
  
The bard’s teeth were chattering, his voice faint and distant - no longer hitching on every pained breath. Geralt realized that Jaskier was in shock. That he didn’t have long at all.  
  
“I changed my mind. Tell me about the countess.”  
  
Jaskier frowned, wrinkling his nose. “I’ve found a new muse.”  
  
In any other situation Geralt would roll his eyes, chastise the bard for being so fickle - but he now found himself swallowing thickly and tightening his grip around the bundle in his arms. He felt compelled to ask, “who?”  
  
Jaskier went silent for a moment too long, prompting Geralt to repeat the question, more urgent this time - although his attention was suddenly drawn away by a deep, throaty noise to their right. As Jaskier spoke in jolted fragments, Geralt waded over to the source of the sound, eyes narrowed. “A moody b- _brute_ , not my usual type at all, and - “  
  
“Jaskier, shut up.”  
  
“Well, make up your - ugh - make up your _mind_ , Geralt.”  
  
Geralt didn’t respond - as he broke through the trees he saw it, a toad squatting on a small white lily pad. It blinked at him and belched again.  
  
And then he saw that there were dozens of them lining the murky, muddy water, heading south. Toads. On white fucking stools. Not _toadstools_.  
  
Rather than dwell on how goddamn _irritating_ witches were, Geralt took off, powerful legs pushing through grime and muck. It was nearly up to his waist when he turned a corner and spotted a small birchwood cottage. It sat upon a piece of land in the middle of the grimy lake, nearly indistinguishable from the reeds that lined the miniature island.  
  
Emmi rushed out of the small house as he approached the water’s edge, small but strong hands pulling Jaskier out first - and rightfully so. He wasn’t moving.

♜ ♖

Emmi helped him hoist Jaskier onto a bed, saying nothing about the blood and muck that now stained its sheets but furrowing her brow at the crude tourniquet. She placed a careful hand on its cloth. “The blade wanted to cut him in half...and nearly _did_. He thought he was going to die.” The hand moved to Jaskier’s cheek, gently wiping away a fleck of red. “He might.”  
  
Geralt clenched his fist, trying to keep his voice low and even. He’d had enough of her vague, hazy bullshit for one day. “Just help him.”  
  
The young witch gnawed on her lip, considering the bard for a moment before pulling a green bottle from her dress pocket. “Get him to drink this. It will slow everything down, start healing from the inside. I’ll get the needle and thread.”  
  
He knelt beside the bed, raising Jaskier’s head and bringing the potion to his lips. Phifre had been right about one thing; Jaskier was apparently very difficult while unconscious. It took a ridiculous amount of posturing and head-tilting until he finally managed to get the liquid down the bard’s throat. He didn’t cough it up like he had that night, though. Just stayed horribly still and remained that way as Emmi removed the tourniquet, cleaned the wound with alcohol and started stitching him up. She moved swiftly, and Geralt watched the needle loop through raw, ragged skin, trying to remain calm.  
  
When she was done she stood, using a cloth to wipe the blood from her hands. Jaskier looked fucking bad, if Geralt was being honest. Stark white skin, mottled purple and red bruises blooming out from where painful-looking stitches barely held the wound closed. And he still hadn’t moved an inch.  
  
He frowned up at Emmi from where he was still kneeling beside the bed. He didn’t know when but at some point Jaskier’s hand had found its way into his, cold to the touch. “That’s it?”  
  
“All we can do now is wait, I’m afraid.”  
  
A grunt. “For what?”  
  
“For him to wake up.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I intended for soo much more to happen in this update but could not stop writing what turned out to basically be a weird game of fluff tag between Geralt and Jaskier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Emmi is the friend who always has pajamas for you to wear when you stay over. Geralt and Jaskier take a lot of baths?

Waiting was by far the worst part. Following Emmi’s instructions before she went to gather some healing herbs, Geralt cut away what was left of Jaskier’s shirt, covered in blood and grime, and removed the stained sheets from the bed. He was cold to the touch but not shivering, which worried the Witcher. He’d never known Jaskier to remain so still, so quiet - if he was ever in the tiniest bit of pain he always made damn sure Geralt knew about it.  
  
He pulled up a chair and sat beside the bed, taking in their surroundings for the first time since they’d blundered in and made a mess of the place. The cottage was much larger than it had originally seemed, with high ceilings and at least three rooms; an enchantment of some sort, he concluded, because now that he was really looking he noticed the sunlight filtering in through the curtains, soft and peaceful - not at all like the swamp’s drab grey and blue hues. Glancing out the window above the bed, he saw a beautiful garden complete with a clear, sparkling spring. Roach was grazing in the grass alongside butterflies and tiny bluebirds, her tail flickering happily.  
  
After about an hour he heard the door open but paid it no mind, instead watching the soft rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest and appreciating the way the sunlight bathed his face, returning some color to deathly-pale skin.  
  
Emmi bustled around in the kitchen for awhile before coming up behind him with a bucket, a cloth, some sort of paste, and a bundle of fresh blankets. “The swamp air is full of bacteria, its waters even more so.” Geralt eyed the pot of salve in her hand, bright yellow in color. “Don’t look so concerned, it’s just a bit of yarrow and calendula.”  
  
Geralt watched her carefully for a moment before grabbing the cloth from her hand and dipping it in the warm water. “I’ll do it. The cleaning.”  
  
“Don’t forget his head. They hurt him there, too.”  
  
_Fucking fantastic_ , Geralt thought, gritting his teeth. The bandits’ demise wasn’t nearly satisfying enough after all they’d done to the bard. He fought back the urge to drop everything and go back, make sure every last one was dead.  
  
Instead he spent the next few hours wiping the blood and dirt from Jaskier’s prone, unresponsive body. His ministrations were surprisingly gentle, as though he were afraid the bard might break beneath his touch.  
  
Emmi was applying ointment to Jaskier’s head and bandaging it when she paused, resting a hand on his throat. “He’s missing something. That’s why you came looking for me, isn’t it?”  
  
“I came because he was bleeding out.” Geralt grumbled, wringing out the cloth, making sure the water was still clean enough before moving on to Jaskier’s shoulder.  
  
She stubbornly shook her head. “Before that. There’s a curse on him. I can feel it.”  
  
A sigh. He hadn’t planned on divulging Jaskier’s condition until he was sure he could trust the girl but her senses were too keen. Saving their lives was more than enough, he decided. “Yes. A curse. Makes him talk a lot...more. Than usual. Most of it shit, but then there’s the...” Geralt trailed off, faintly hearing Jaskier’s voice in the back of his mind, whispering, ‘I’ve found a new muse.’ “The other shit.”  
  
Emmi looked amused for a moment, lips curving into a small smile. “I’ll look into it. It’s the least I can do - you helped me, by taking care of those bandits. Hearing the screams of all the people they hurt...it was awful. I’m glad to help however I can.”

♜ ♖

By the time they were done the water in the bucket had gone cold, swirling with blood and muck, and the sun had started to set. Geralt tucked Jaskier into clean sheets, grinding his jaw as he willed the bard to wake up. Now, preferably. It was a bit selfish, but he just needed some sort of proof that his friend was still in there.  
  
When Jaskier remained very much unconscious - and oblivious to fierce yellow eyes glaring daggers at him - Geralt stood to dump the water out. Despite himself he winced, an arm wrapping protectively around his middle. Emmi was cleaning up and when she saw him she frowned, offering an unused towel and the pot of ointment.  
  
“You should clean up, too. I can run a bath if you like.” Geralt ignored her, but the next step he took had him doubling over. He couldn’t bathe now - needed to be at Jaskier’s side, whenever he decided to open his eyes. “The wound will fester if you don’t. I’ll watch over him - if you don’t want a bath then wash up in the spring out back, at least.”  
  
After a moment of deliberation, Geralt relented and accepted the bundle of clean clothes and bandages that she insisted he take, mumbling his thanks as he stepped outside.  
  
The air was warm and pleasant, he noticed, as he peeled off absolutely filthy clothes, setting his swords aside and stepping into the spring. Crickets chirped as the setting sun’s cheerful glow was replaced by the cool blues of evening. Reeds, healthier than those in the swamp, obscured whatever lay beyond Emmi’s small paradise.  
  
“Nice place.” Geralt observed. Beside the spring, laying in a patch of long, soft grass and wildflowers, Roach huffed in agreement.  
  
As he bathed he found his mood tainted by the sight of Jaskier’s blood on his hands and arms. Under his fingernails. He quickly washed it off before turning his attention to the injury below his ribs. A corner of it had reopened, dark blood oozing sluggishly from the arrow’s entry point.  
  
After he had scrubbed it clean and applied Emmi’s ointment he sighed, leaning back and enjoying the warmth of the water and peaceful, summery air for a moment - just a moment, however. A loud crash, followed by a yell, from inside the cottage interrupted his thoughts.  
  
Geralt was on his feet in seconds, hastily grabbing the towel and one of his swords. He kicked the back door open a bit too forcefully and brandished his blade with one hand. The other was fumbling to get a good grip on the towel, which was hurriedly and quite precariously wrapped about his waist.  
  
Emmi had her hands raised to show she meant no harm. “I’m not going to hurt you, but please, you shouldn’t be - “ She looked to Geralt for assistance but when she saw the state of him, gasped and covered her eyes. “Please calm him, he keeps asking where ‘she’ is.”  
  
Jaskier, the fucking _idiot_ , was awake and attempting to stand. Relief instantly flooded through Geralt, revealing itself in the form of a broad smile - it didn’t last long, however, as he took in the rest of the scene.  
  
The nightstand had toppled over in Jaskier’s efforts and he was now clutching the wall, his other arm dangling at his side. The shirt Emmi had given him was decidedly too big, and from where it hung off his neck Geralt could see bright red spots forming under his dressings.  
  
When he spotted Geralt he pointed an accusing finger at him, not realizing or seeming to care that his hand was the only thing keeping him upright. He tottered dangerously to the side, eyes wide and a bit delirious. “You! My lute, where is my _lute_? What did you do to her?”  
  
“Oh, this again? You’re worried about your fucking lute? You almost died, Jaskier, you need to sit - “ Geralt was across the room in an instant. He made sure the towel was securely in place before he began urging Jaskier back to bed. “ _down_. You’ve lost a lot of blood.”  
  
The bard resisted for a moment but a wave of dizziness took the fight out of him completely. He sagged into Geralt, allowing the man to guide him into a sitting position at the edge of the bed.  
  
“Where - why are you _naked_ , Geralt?” he moaned, good hand flying up to clutch at his throbbing head. Through his fingers he squinted at Emmi, who was busying herself with something in the kitchen. Geralt could have sworn he heard her cover up a laugh with a loud cough. “And who is _that_? She was touching my neck and - and _chanting_ \- ”  
  
“A friend. She saved your life.”  
  
The bard was shivering violently as Geralt helped get him settled before heading outside to get dressed. By the time he came back Jaskier was sitting up again, shimmying closer to the wall as Emmi approached with a cup of tea. She offered it to him with a kind, placating smile. “Sorry I scared you. Please, drink this. It will help with the pain.”  
  
Geralt watched as Emmi checked under Jaskier’s bandages to make sure he hadn’t ripped any stitches. Satisfied, she eased him back down as whatever was in the drink took hold, pulling the bard back under. He offered her a rather slurred ‘thank you, ma’am’ that made her chuckle.  
  
“It’s not going to be an easy recovery. His arm...”  
  
“I know. I saw.”  
  
After she turned in for the night, he scooted the chair closer - not really thinking about what he was doing - and took the bard’s hand in his own, as he had earlier, but under very different circumstances.  
  
That’s how he eventually drifted off, lulled into a dreamless sleep by Jaskier’s soft, even breaths and reassured by his pleasant warmth. 

♜ ♖

“I need to take a bath.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes at Jaskier, who was pouting at him from where he was currently propped up in bed, swaddled in a mountain of blankets. They’d been in Emmi’s cottage for three days now, waiting until he was well enough for her to try removing the curse. It wasn’t until the second that Jaskier was lucid enough to realize he could barely move his left arm.  
  
“You’re clean, Jaskier. I bathed you myself.”  
  
“You - _what_? You mean four days ago, when you _sponge-bathed_ me?” The bard’s cheeks flushed, but he refused to back down. “You - you did a terrible job. And, well, I’m so sorry to be the one to tell you this, but not all of us are content to go around smelling of onions, _Geralt_.”  
  
From where she sat at the table examining the object that had ejected itself from Jaskier’s throat, Emmi snorted. Geralt shot her a look. “Fine. Pain in the ass.”  
  
When the bath was ready, filled with piping hot water and an herbal concoction, Geralt turned to retrieve the bard - and abruptly stopped when he saw that Jaskier was standing in the doorway, leaning heavily against the wall and watching Geralt with an unreadable expression.  
  
“How is it today?”  
  
Jaskier looked down at the limb hanging at his side and made a face. “Well, I wiggled a finger this morning - at you, actually. The middle one.”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
A soft sigh, Jaskier allowing Geralt to help him out of his shirt as he spoke. “Emmi said it’s not permanent, as long as I keep practicing. A few weeks. Or months, I don’t know, she’s very vague. I _did_ manage to hold a cup of tea today, not really lift it...but, um, I think I still need...” now that he was shirtless, watching as Geralt silently undid the bandages on his shoulder, he found he just had to look away. “Help.”  
  
Geralt looked at him in confusion. And gods, did he have to stand close enough for Jaskier to feel hot breath ghosting down his neck as the other man sighed? The bard thought _not_. “Help?”  
  
Jaskier’s cheeks turned an impressive shade of pink as he jerked his head towards the bath.  
  
Oh. _Oh_. Geralt cleared his throat and nodded tightly, sitting Jaskier down on a stool before closing the door to give them some privacy.  
  
By the time he managed to get into the bath Jaskier was panting with effort, face pale. Pale and unfortunately still blushing, which was _ridiculous_ \- he’d helped Geralt bathe and apply lotion to some very dubious places many, _many_ times and -  
  
Before Jaskier could finish the thought Geralt was suddenly kneeling, dipping a cloth in the water and - gods, dragging it far too slowly along the bard’s back, making him freeze in place, hand gripping the side of the tub.  
  
“Breathe, Jaskier.”  
  
“O-okay.”  
  
The cloth glided over the stitches on his shoulder, a little too rough on the tender skin, and he sucked in a sharp breath. Geralt’s hand recoiled instantly, hovering in the air, looking as though he’d been burned. “Fuck. Sorry.”  
  
Jaskier wasn’t sure _what_ possessed him to do what he did next, but before he knew it he was reaching up and grabbing Geralt’s hand, using it to pull the man closer. He tilted his head a bit until their faces were inches apart - Geralt regarding him with a horribly, _adorably_ shocked expression, his gaze moving down to the bard’s lips. Jaskier drew in closer still, and -  
  
“Oh no, nono _no_ , Geralt - ah!” Jaskier’s frantic spluttering was interrupted as he slipped, head going under the water. Still talking, somehow, in the form of bubbles floating to the surface as Geralt grabbed his good shoulder and hoisted him up. In the same breath Jaskier spit out some water and continued babbling, “Geralt, I don’t know what came over me, it was like I couldn’t control...oh, gods. The curse. I...I have to get out now. Yes.”  
  
Geralt barely caught the bard in time as he started scrambling around like a frantic, slippery eel, trying to get out of the tub. “Just, uh...stay. I’ll help you out and then you can tell me what the fuck you’re talking about. Okay?”  
  
Jaskier stared into his eyes for a moment, looking like a nervous wreck, before nodding. Geralt released him and backed away slowly - when he was sure the other man wouldn’t try flopping out on his own again he turned and ran to grab a towel from the laundry line.  
  
Geralt hadn’t seen it, what had the bard so shaken up, but Jaskier knew - could feel it in the way his injured shoulder throbbed in protest. He had used his left arm, when he pulled Geralt closer. The same arm that he was now experimentally trying to move and found that he couldn’t. Could only flex his fingers, watching them clasp and unclasp in the murky water.  
  
The curse was getting worse and somehow, it knew exactly what he wanted.


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hereby renounce all of the bad things Jaskier has to say about Yennefer in this fic. Personally, I think she’s a treasure and can’t wait for her to try helping these idiots.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things go south. Geralt and Jaskier say each other’s names far too often but that’s canon, right?

Jaskier was _brooding_.  
  
And wasn’t this just the absolute definition of role reversal; Geralt, standing over him and looking quite sour, urging him to speak as the smaller man sat with a proverbial dark cloud looming over his head.  
  
“Jaskier. Talk to me.”  
  
He placed a hand on the bard’s knee from where he was perched on the bed - Jaskier had ripped a stitch in all the commotion and was now dabbing absentmindedly at the angry wound. Once it was clean he slipped on a shirt, allowing it to breathe before he stuffed it back into tight bandages.  
  
“It’s getting worse, Geralt.”  
  
“So you said.”  
  
“It moved my left arm, _Geralt_!”  
  
“So it did. But we’re going to fix it.”  
  
Jaskier finally looked at him for the first time since the incident in the bath. Geralt had been back quickly with towels and bandages, but a few moments were all it took for the bard’s mood to go from frantic ranting to somber frowning, staring off into the distance and occasionally looking down at his own immobilized arm as though it might reach up and start strangling him.  
  
Emmi had excused herself to give them time and space to talk, seeing the awkward way they’d shuffled out of the bathroom, Jaskier sulking while Geralt kept shooting him furtive, somewhat frighteningly attentive glances.  
  
“But what if we _can’t_? It hurt me, actually physically hurt me, when it - well, you know. What kind of curse does that?”  
  
Geralt opened his mouth to offer reassurance but stopped when he processed the words, the corner of his lips tugging into a wry smile. “Most of them, actually. That’s kind of the point.”  
  
The bard snorted, trying very hard to look serious but unable to hold back a somewhat relieved laugh. He never had been good at brooding - tried it a few times when Geralt refused to attend his little soirées but always ended up relenting (just as Geralt almost always ended up _attending_ ) - and the sound of his laughter was pleasant, immediately dissolving the uncomfortable tension that had been building between them. “Oh, you sly dog - was that a _joke_? Ugh, Geralt, that’s...I should have dragged you down into the tub with me, so no one else has to suffer through your humor.”  
  
When he realized what he had said - and its implications - Jaskier sighed miserably, flopping back on the bed with a quiet ‘ow’ as he jostled his shoulder.  
  
“I wouldn’t mind going out like that.”  
  
Jaskier cracked one impossibly blue eye open and peered up at him suspiciously. “You’re just saying that.”  
  
“I don’t just say things.”  
  
He had the bard there. But Jaskier didn’t want to - or perhaps couldn’t - acknowledge the possibility that Geralt felt that way about him. And with the curse constantly forcing him to vomit up words and feelings that he wasn’t even sure were his...  
  
Jaskier opened his mouth to crack wise, say _something_ to change the subject when Emmi burst into the room, looking very alarmed.  
  
“Is everything okay?” she asked, looking from Geralt to Jaskier and checking them for injuries. Well, more injuries. It had been a rough week.  
  
Jaskier tilted his head up to squint at her. “Um, yes? Oh, now you’ve got me thinking about it...maybe? Everything does sound like a bit of a stretch. Perhaps one or two things. Wait...are _you_ okay? You look like someone just kicked your cat.”  
  
“I was sure..come, we should remove the curse. Now.” Ghostly pale, she hurried to the table and cautiously took the small black ball in her hands. Before she could approach Jaskier, Geralt stood between them, crossing his arms.  
  
“Stop. What aren’t you saying?”  
  
The bard sat up with a bit of effort, worry creasing his brow when she didn’t answer straight away, instead glancing nervously out the window.  
  
“I-I was practicing the incantation in the garden when something _stopped_ me. I don’t know what it was, but it made the words feel like acid in my throat. A malicious presence - some sort of safeguard, maybe. I worried it might have rebounded onto you, too.”  
  
That certainly wasn’t a good sign. Jaskier put a hand on Geralt’s arm, gently nudging him aside and fixing the girl with a sympathetic look. “If this is going to put you in any sort of danger, maybe we should...”  
  
“No. We need act now. It’s powerful, but I think I can lift it.” She offered an encouraging smile. “I know a thing or two about hexes, after all.”  
  
Jaskier let out a fake, dramatic gasp. “So you _did_ do it! Naughty, naughty witch. Turning that poor boy into a ferret.”  
  
Emmi laughed and with Geralt no longer playing bodyguard, sat beside him on the bed. “He changed back eventually. I’ll need you to lie down for me.”  
  
She placed the ball on Jaskier’s chest, the spiky tips of it pricking him through the thin material of his shirt - not enough to hurt, but uncomfortable all the same. Geralt took a seat, content with watching from the sidelines and keeping a careful eye in case things took a turn for the worse.  
  
Which they did. Naturally.  
  
As Emmi placed her hands over Jaskier’s chest and started chanting, he became aware of a rushing in his ears and a tickle in his throat. The air grew thick and buzzed with energy, before lightening into a soft breeze - Jaskier watched, wide-eyed as the curtains startled to rustle.  
  
It intensified as the girl’s words became louder, more purposeful. The curtains were now whipping about violently. She pressed down harder on the object between her hand and Jaskier’s chest but rather than hurting it felt - nice, like something had been missing and he was becoming _whole_ again, and Jaskier turned excitedly to Geralt.  
  
“I-I think it’s working, I feel...Emmi?”  
  
As her chanting reached its peak she tensed, horrified eyes looking down at her hands, and it was then that Jaskier smelled it. Burning. And heard it - a sick popping, sizzling sound.  
  
And suddenly Emmi was screaming, eyes going black before rolling back into her head - Jaskier sat up, trying to catch her as she pitched backwards but his injured arm stubbornly refused to move, the good one just barely managing to grab her wrist and keep her upright.  
  
The cursed black object rolled innocently to the floor as Geralt swiftly caught Emmi, Jaskier’s grip faltering. He eased her carefully to the floor, propping her up into a sitting position.  
  
“B-bloody hell, are you all right? What...what happened to her, Geralt?”  
  
Geralt fixed him with a look that said, ‘no, she is clearly not all right’ before he took her hands in his, flipping them over to reveal two distinct symbols burned into her palms. “Fuck, I need cold water. Did it hurt you?”  
  
Jaskier looked down at his own hands and shook his head, feeling quite rattled. “I‘ll - I’ll go to the spring. Don’t look at me like that, I’m _fine_. But again, in case I didn’t emphasize this enough - _bloody hell_.”

♜ ♖

Jaskier managed to calm the girl down while Geralt sketched the symbols on her hands before wrapping them. After a few minutes she seemed to come back to herself. “I can’t help you. Its nature is dark and twisted, not like anything I’ve felt before.” Emmi winced, looking down at the bandages. “G-Goetia.”  
  
“Oh. Bless you?”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Forbidden magic. Conjuring demons to do your bidding.”  
  
“Sorry, dem - did you say _demons_? Oh, fantastic. I mean, I’m flattered that someone went to such great lengths, but - honestly, a dagger in the back would have taken _far_ less effort.”  
  
The Witcher grunted, helping Emmi onto the bed. “I’m starting to think it’s not about just you anymore. We need to go now. Find someone more experienced. Trained.”  
  
And oh, Jaskier didn’t have to ask to know _exactly_ where this was going. “Geralt, _no_. Would very much rather fucking not, thank you - actually, I think I’d let my own arm throttle me in my sleep first.” The bard paused, and then glanced nervously down at the offending limb. “I’m being _theatrical_. Please don’t.”  
  
Geralt grunted, making sure Emmi was comfortable before gathering their things and getting Roach ready to travel. It seemed he had already made up his mind, much to Jaskier’s very obvious, very vocal dismay. He quieted down only when he saw how alarmed Geralt was as he rushed about. _Had been_ , ever since he laid eyes on the strange symbols burned into Emmi’s hands.  
  
Before they left Jaskier thanked Emmi - for him and the maniac outside, shouting for him to hurry up - and touched the top of her hand, feeling conflicted about leaving her so suddenly. “Are you sure you’ll be all right?”  
  
She nodded. “I will, Jaskier. But be careful. It is not what it seems.”  
  
And with that awfully cryptic goodbye (and yes, Jaskier _had_ asked for clarification multiple times - the girl was just far too proficient at talking in circles) they took off, speeding out of the swamp towards whatever high-profile royal Yennefer had latched herself onto.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Jaskier tried keeping some space between him and Geralt as they went but, having little to no use of one arm, found his right wrapped tightly about the other man’s waist.  
  
“Can we at least buy some proper clothes first, Geralt? I have a reputation to uphold. I can’t wander into a castle looking like _this_.” Jaskier whined, being particularly bratty after his decision to _not_ go find the wicked witch was overruled.  
  
“We have no money.”  
  
Jaskier went to protest but stopped at a particularly large bump in the road that had his fingers digging into Geralt’s firm abdomen, letting out a soft, breathy groan directly into the Witcher’s ear.  
  
“Jaskier, do you need a break?”  
  
The pain in his shoulder subsided to a dull throb. “N-no. I’m all right. Besides, I seem to recall nearly dying as a result of the last break we took.”  
  
“That won’t happen again.”  
  
The bard allowed himself to rest his cheek on Geralt’s back, for _stability_ reasons, of course. He was a wounded man. “Bollocks to that - or have you suddenly added precognition to your vast repertoire of supernatural talents? You never cease to amaze.”  
  
Jaskier cringed as he felt Geralt tense beneath him. He hadn’t meant for it to come out like that, _hated_ when the curse spoke for him, messing with his words and making them come out wrong. This time he sounded somewhat insensitive, sarcastic. He murmured an apology.  
  
Suddenly Geralt was tugging gently at Roach’s reins, bringing them to a steady trot before stopping completely. He helped Jaskier down and before the bard could ask just what they were doing, found himself pinned between the larger man and Roach’s backside. Which was...lovely.  
  
“Geralt, what - “  
  
“Stop apologizing. About the curse. It’s not your fault.”  
  
Jaskier peered disdainfully around the barren, hilly landscape where they’d suddenly disembarked. “Yes, yes, I know. Can’t control it, blah, blah. Still makes me feel like a shit, though. Did we really need to stop for this?”  
  
Geralt cursed and looked away for a moment, before turning back to Jaskier with - well, possibly the worst expression the bard had ever seen. It was subtle but he knew the man’s face well enough to recognize it. Guilt. “You are a shit. But it’s my fault that someone did this to you.”  
  
“What do you mean - hang on a second, Geralt, do you know who it is? Why aren’t we going _there_? To, you know, give ‘em the old...shakedown? No, that makes me sound like an ass. Hold on, I’ll think of a better one - ”  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
The bard jumped and looked up at the man, painfully aware that there was less than an inch separating them now.  
  
Geralt took a deep, calming breath before he spoke again. “There was a woman. She’d been practicing similar...forbidden arts on children. I accepted the coin. Brought her to justice, but I didn’t know the town’s lord was lying about his intentions. He mutilated her and sent her into exile.”  
  
Realization dawned on Jaskier and he nodded slowly, trying to work past the lump forming in his throat. “You think she’s seeking revenge. Oh, yikes. Where can we find this lovely...child-hater?”  
  
“I don’t fucking know. That’s why we need Yen.”  
  
Followed by silence as Jaskier tried working something out in his mind.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
“Yes, Jaskier?”  
  
“ _Why_ on earth did she choose me? You know, it just seems like a rather roundabout way of doing things. Maybe not her best plan - oh, but the children. Okay, her second _worst_ plan.” Jaskier caught himself babbling and stopped, suddenly feeling very nervous as he repeated the question. His voice was a little too high when he did. “But why me, Geralt?”  
  
Another silence. This one went on far longer, Jaskier nearly jumping out of his skin as he awaited the answer, until Geralt’s hand was suddenly touching his cheek.  
  
It lingered there a moment before moving to cradle his head, fingers tangling in his hair - and Jaskier watched in rare, stunned silence as Geralt kissed him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m sooooo sorry for the teeny tiny update today, I had a low-grade fever that turned into this whole ass thing and now I am too delirious to continue editing the chapter. But please enjoy the bit I was happy with!

Jaskier’s eyes had been open for far too long, he realized. But in his defense there was currently an _impossibly_ alluring Witcher attached to his lips - not to mention years of buildup and some residual anger from their fight bubbling to the surface, turning what had started as an innocent, cautious exploration into something hungry and urgent that had the bard’s head very near exploding.  
  
At the feeling of being watched Geralt broke the kiss, snorting affectionately at Jaskier’s doe-eyed stare and the way the smaller man stubbornly chased his lips, unhappy with the loss of contact. He smirked and moved lower, Jaskier’s eyes finally sliding shut as Geralt nipped at his ear, a spot below his chin, the curve of his _neck_ \- eliciting a soft, panting moan from the bard.  
  
He easily could have stood there for hours - days, even - but as Geralt returned his attention to kiss-swollen lips, Jaskier became aware of an odd sensation that tugged at him unpleasantly, trying to ruin this amazing, this utterly _divine_ moment -  
  
“Ger - mmf. Ger _alt_. Wait.”  
  
Geralt obeyed instantly, drawing back but keeping a firm, steadying grip on the bard’s hips. When he spoke his voice was low and hoarse in a way that made it _very_ hard for Jaskier to resist the powerful urge to kiss him again. “Did I hurt you?”  
  
“I think you managed the exact _opposite_ of that, Geralt. It’s...” Jaskier, slowly becoming reacquainted with his surroundings and the ground beneath his feet, cast a wary glance at his left arm which had apparently decided to take matters into its own hands and grip the front of Geralt’s shirt, undoing the first three buttons.  
  
Geralt followed his gaze, gently took the offending hand into his own, and lowered it. Despite the damage to his nerves, Jaskier could vaguely feel the warmth of the other man’s hand as it held his in place between them. “Better?”  
  
“Yes. Well, no, actually.” Jaskier huffed, peering up into Geralt’s eyes as though they might contain the right words for what he was about to say. Unfortunately the man’s other hand was still clasping his hip, tracing soothing circles where his fingers landed on the small of the bard’s back. “Ah, it’s very hard to think straight when you’re...very _distracting_ when you - oh, that’s nice.”  
  
“Have I left the bard speechless?” Geralt stopped his subtle ministrations. “Tell me what’s wrong, Jaskier.”  
  
“Speechless? Gods, no, I’m told I can be a little _too_ enthusiastic when I - ” Jaskier cleared his throat as Geralt raised a brow. Focus, focus. “Um, okay. It’s just...with my current _affliction_ , I don’t know...I mean - is it too melodramatic of me to say that I don’t quite know what’s _real_ anymore? And what if the sorceress is just using me to hurt you, Geralt, or - ”  
  
“I understand, Jaskier. I can wait.” He gave the bard’s hand a soft squeeze - an action that seemed natural, thoughtless - before abruptly spinning him around and hoisting him up onto Roach’s back.  
  
Jaskier spluttered, watching as the other man mounted the horse shortly after, urging her into a steady trot. “Wait - that’s it? Wh-where are we _going_ , Geralt?”  
  
“To get rid of this fucking curse.” Geralt growled, suddenly sounding _very_ grumpy - a drastic change from his mood just moments ago, but Jaskier knew the anger wasn’t directed at him.  
  
“And what, pray tell, happened to the whole ‘I can wait’ bit?” Jaskier teased, doing what he thought to be an uncanny impression of his companion.  
  
“Doesn’t mean I want to.”  
  
And it was a bit cute, if Jaskier was being honest. While he never doubted Geralt’s commitment to removing the curse before, the man was now riding like a bat out of hell towards Yennefer’s most recent haunt.


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thank you guys for your wonderful comments, this human petri dish appreciates it so so so so soooooooo so much!!!!!!! And I’m sorry if this chapter isn’t my best, I’ve got NyQuil brain, but I’ll be back to tinker with it in the morning!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier and Geralt touch each other constantly.

They slowed to a trot as they passed through the gates of a large town, sun setting behind them. Jaskier recalled spending some time here, months ago - blissfully unaware, of course, of the unfavorable presence lurking within the walls of the grand duke’s large and imposing castle.  
  
“So what _is_ the old gal up to these days? Besides, you know, the usual agenda of magic orgies and...and...oh, bollocks. I had something for this.”  
  
“Better get your insults in order now.” And Jaskier _so_ did not need to see Geralt’s face to know he was currently sporting a very wolfish, shit-eating smirk. “Unless you want a repeat of the last time you two met.”  
  
A scandalized gasp. “Wo-o-ow, that is a very low blow. And it was one time! _And_ she’s scary, Geralt! Yes, I said it - she _scares_ me.”  
  
By the time they came upon the entrance to the castle gates it was nightfall and Jaskier was barely sitting upright, leaning heavily into Geralt with his arm wrapped around him, a firm grip on his wrist holding him in place.  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt gently nudged the man as a few guards approached them. They didn’t ask questions or demand an explanation for the late night intrusion, though - instead ushering the two men into the mansion, quick as could be. Yennefer had the run of the place, apparently, and was expecting them.  
  
They had been waiting in the vestibule for only a few minutes when the sorceress appeared, hand on her hip. She nodded curtly to the valet who bowed and left to give them some privacy.  
  
“You took your sweet time, Geralt. And it seems you’ve tracked in some garbage. Just there, on your arm.”  
  
Jaskier straightened from where he’d been clinging to Geralt, shooting her a petulant little frown. “Pleasure as always, Yennefer.”  
  
She returned it with a contemptuous smile. “Jaskier. _Love_ the new look.”  
  
Jaskier looked down at his very tattered, very plain ensemble - an ancient, yellowing white blouse and horribly drab brown pants - and instantly turned a mortified, somewhat impressive shade of scarlet.  
  
“Ohoho, _you’re_ the one who...” he scanned her immaculate appearance, looking for _some_ thing to insult her with. “Who... _you_ look like a - “  
  
Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s elbow as he continued his indignant, fruitless stammering - an action that didn’t go unnoticed by Yennefer. Her cool, calculating violet eyes were sizing them up in a way that made the bard _very_ uncomfortable.  
  
“Yen. You knew we were coming.”  
  
“Obviously. You aren’t nearly as subtle as you think, romping through the countryside like a couple of common criminals.” A devilish little smile played across her lips. “I’ve enjoyed the amusing tales of your exploits - particularly the one where a Witcher ransacks an inn and kidnaps its poor, defenseless bard. But I could sense that foul curse from a mile away. Come, let’s go to my study. Your little plaything looks like he’s about to fall over.”  
  
“Puh- _plaything_? That’s just - I am an adult _man_ , you - Geralt, tell her! I - oh, she’s walking away.”  
  
Geralt gave him a sympathetic pat on the back as he lapsed into sullen silence. They followed her through the maze-like hallways of the mansion, into a beautifully decorated, surprisingly cozy room. Neat piles of books and an array of colorful candles sat atop a mahogany desk.  
  
Despite his wounded pride and desperate need to conjure up at least one satisfying comeback, the bard found himself falling into a plush, ornate chair by the fire. Its steady warmth relaxed him only a bit, however, as he slowly became aware of an awkward tension permeating the room.  
  
Geralt was leaning on the arm of Jaskier’s chair, arms crossed over his chest as Yennefer poured a couple glasses of wine. She sashayed over to them, the picture of elegance as she sat cross-legged on a small fainting couch.  
  
“So, how was the ride in?”  
  
“We didn’t come here for small talk.”  
  
She took a long, slow sip and made a face. “Far too sweet. I prefer dry reds in autumn.”  
  
“ _Yen_.”  
  
“You know, your brutish nature has been rubbing off on Ciri. The other day she - oh, _all right_. Give me your left hand, Jaskier.”  
  
And Jaskier, who had been looking back and forth between them throughout the somewhat hostile exchange, jumped at the sound of his own name. “M-my - what? What did you say? Sorry, it’s just that I am so very, _very_ dreadfully uncomfortable right now. There’s far too much sexy staring going on.”  
  
Yennefer rolled her eyes, setting down her glass and putting out her hand, gesturing impatiently. “Your left hand - it’s brimming with nasty energy. Hurry up so I can see what we’re dealing with.”  
  
“O-oh, that’s...” Jaskier tried, as he had been for days now, to move his arm but it refused to budge, fingers twitching. He huffed in frustration, which then turned into a startled squeak - complete with an “oh, fuck!” - as Yennefer suddenly stood and closed the space between them, taking his hand into hers.  
  
He expected some scathing insult as she examined his arm - soft, slender fingers traced green-blue veins until they reached his shoulder and hovered there for a moment. Instead, she knelt before him, now back to holding his hand in both of hers. “I’m sorry, I didn’t realize. Give me a moment.”  
  
Geralt watched carefully as she closed her eyes, her perfect brows knitting together in concentration, and Jaskier was aware of a strangely violating sensation as she used her keen magical senses to investigate. The sorceress’s grip tightened on him and she frowned - the probing feeling intensified, making Jaskier squirm uncomfortably in his seat.  
  
After a few minutes Geralt stood, glaring down at her. “That’s enough, Yen.”  
  
When she released Jaskier’s hand the connection broke instantly, sending both of them reeling.  
  
Yennefer stood then, brushing herself off - and perhaps enjoying the suspense, and the power it gave her. Just a little bit. “It’s quite a strong enchantment. Forbidden, too. You’ve pissed off someone who doesn’t play by the rules, which is about as dangerous as it can get.” Her eyes never left Jaskier as she spoke. “It makes you say things, doesn’t it? They’re not just things, though. It’s removed your filter, however...ineffective it was before. Forces you to state your true feelings.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes bulged as he looked between her and Geralt, thinking back to all of the things he’d said in the last week - the innuendos, the blasted _songs_ \- and blushing furiously. “Th-that’s preposterous! All I’ve really been talking about is how I want to fuc - huh - _how_ ugly is that vase, honestly? It-it’s hideous. Completely ruins the room.”  
  
Geralt gave him a curious look just as Yennefer laughed, a bit wickedly if Jaskier was being honest. Which apparently he was - had been doing - _all_ of the time now.  
  
“That’s one way around it - exchanging one of your truths for another. Surprisingly clever, but a temporary fix at best. You’ve started losing control of your body, yes? And it feels wrong when you resist?”  
  
Images flashed in the bard’s mind, of his hand pulling Geralt closer in the bath, unbuttoning his shirt as they kissed - he had experienced an uncomfortable tugging sensation both times.  
  
Suddenly he was very interested in the pattern of the rug beneath his feet, muttering a resentful, “yes, perhaps, do get on with it.”  
  
“Well, naturally, you’ll continue resisting until the curse either overpowers you or destroys your mind. Both very unpleasant ends, I assure you.”  
  
At that point Geralt was pacing madly about the room, cursing under his breath. Mid-stride he paused, glaring daggers at the porcelain monstrosity on the shelf. “That is an ugly fucking vase.” He turned back to the sorceress. “Can you remove it?”  
  
She snorted. “It was a gift, Geralt.”  
  
“The curse, Yen. The _fucking_ curse.”  
  
“Oh, certainly not. It’s all tangled up inside him, like an overgrown weed.” And suddenly she looked very serious - Jaskier thought it was about time, honestly, after the bombshell she’d just dropped. “We’ll need to find the mage who did this and force them to remove it. They want to use him, break down his self-control until there’s nothing left but a puppet, whose strings are theirs to pull. I have to assume it’s to get to you, Geralt.”  
  
“A _puppet_?” Jaskier exclaimed suddenly from where he’d been slowly melting into the couch, exhausted and sore from the day’s long, jolting journey. “This took a turn. I mean, to do _what_ exactly? Sing him to death? What a very silly, silly plan.”  
  
Yennefer looked at Geralt, and then back to the bard. “We both know you are in a position to do far more than just that, Jaskier.”  
  
That shut him up instantly.  
  
“I know who it is. Portal me to her and I’ll take care of the rest.” Geralt growled. His furious pacing had landed him at the far corner of the room, and he stood there with his arms still crossed, glowering at the fireplace - Jaskier wanted _so_ badly to poke fun at the fact that he had basically just put himself in time out.  
  
“I’m afraid it won’t be that simple.”  
  
“Well, isn’t that just _shocking_.”  
  
She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t be like that, Jaskier. I’m going to help you, but you’ll need to trust me.” The bard made a noise of protest. “ _Implicitly._ ”

♜ ♖

Yennefer insisted that they stay the night while she worked out a plan. It took quite a bit of clever convincing on her part but Geralt finally agreed, albeit grudgingly. They had no coin and Jaskier looked queasy at the prospect of sleeping outdoors, so he didn’t really have a choice.  
  
“I’m afraid there’s only one unoccupied room. The grand duke’s extended family is in town and they breed like rabbits, apparently. So sorry to put you out.”  
  
And Jaskier did not appreciate the sly look she gave him when she handed him the key. As he and Geralt journeyed through winding halls towards the west wing, the bard found he was suddenly very, very fidgety - mind buzzing with some very explicit thoughts that he was absolutely terrified he might vocalize if he opened his mouth.  
  
All of this was abruptly forgotten as soon as they entered their room - Geralt raised his palm to the fireplace, lighting it to reveal a massive, _marvelous_ bed draped in silk sheets and fur blankets.  
  
Jaskier was splayed across it impressively fast, nuzzling his cheek against the cool, soft silk and making an obscene amount of noise.  
  
“Oh, Geralt, it’s...it’s a bed, a _real_ bed filled with down instead of...I’m thinking _hay_? Is that right? You have to come feel it, it’s - wh...what are you doing, Geralt?” He poked his head up as Geralt gently slipped one of the blankets out from under him.  
  
“Sleeping on the floor.”  
  
Jaskier frowned. “The - the _floor_? Oh, no you don’t - give me that!” He snatched a corner of the blanket in Geralt’s hand and tried tugging it away.  
  
Geralt growled and tugged right back. “ _Jaskier_.”  
  
“You’re being ridiculous, Geralt!” He jerked it towards his chest but naturally, Geralt did the same. Jaskier wobbled dangerously at the edge of the bed. “ _Why_ are you so _stubborn_ \- ”  
  
Another yank from his end, a rough tug from the other - _too_ rough because Jaskier was suddenly tumbling forward. He yelped and tried to find purchase on the edge of the bed but the soft slipperiness of the silk betrayed him.  
  
Two strong arms were suddenly enveloping him, careful to avoid his shoulder, and he looked up to see Geralt’s face above his as the other man made sure he wasn’t going to continue his perilous descent to the floor.  
  
And Jaskier forgot to breathe then, unable to look away from the man who was still seething from their aggressive game of tug-of-war. Without thinking he craned his neck, closing the space between them and pecking Geralt’s lips.  
  
“That’s why.” Geralt rumbled, eyes fixed on the bard’s lips as he let his head fall back on the bed.  
  
“O-oh. Well, whatever. We’ll each take a side - I’ll fend you off with pillows if I have to.” Jaskier’s lips curved into a teasing smile as he was rewarded with a soft, breathy laugh from the other man.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Jaskier settled into the covers, humming happily at the way the bed shifted as Geralt slipped in beside him. After a moment he turned, peering at the man over his little wall of pillows.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
“You know, you didn’t answer my question earlier.”  
  
Geralt moved so that he was facing the bard. “What question is that?”  
  
“Why did the witch choose me? And no, kissing me senseless does not count as an answer.”  
  
Geralt studied him for a long moment before rolling back over. “Not now. Ask me again, the second we lift the curse.”  
  
Jaskier wanted to pout, to press the man for more, but something stopped him. “Oh, you’re on. The very second.” 

♜ ♖

It was around dawn when Jaskier felt someone frantically shaking him. Shouting his name. He’d been dreaming - of _course_ it had been a dream. A bloody awful one, at that. Why was everything so _fuzzy_?  
  
There was a painful pressure that he tried squirming away from but rather than relent it intensified. He whimpered, wanting to ask the offending force to please stop because his shoulder was only just healing and Emmi would be very cross if he ripped his stitches again and -  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
Geralt’s panicked voice dragged him to the surface and he opened his eyes. Everything came into focus very slowly.  
  
He was on the bed. Geralt on top of him, bearing down on his shoulders, effectively pinning him. Okay, not the worst way to wake up, but...  
  
Geralt’s expression was all wrong, pinched with concern and...something else. Gold eyes were searching his face - when they saw he was awake the pressure subsided, and a hand came up to touch his cheek. He groaned, trying to get up but finding that he couldn’t.  
  
Bleary-eyed, he frowned up at Geralt. He opened his mouth to tell the man that no, he did not particularly _like_ this game, when he saw it.  
  
His own left hand, wrapped tightly about Geralt’s neck, squeezing hard enough to bruise.


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey Y’ALL, I am so so sorry for the two day hiatus, it turned out I had the fucking flu which was a fun and new experience for me! But all is well and I’m hanging out with my 70 lb puppy while I recover so on with the show!!!!!! 
> 
> This chapter is a liiiiiiittle slow and dialogue-heavy, mostly because tomorrow’s update is going to get a lil crazy. I hope you enjoy it all the same!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Jaskier is eternally grossed out.

Geralt awoke to Jaskier’s arm splayed haphazardly across him. With a somewhat grumpy (but largely amused) huff he plucked the invasive limb from where it had situated itself, with Jaskier’s hand practically engulfing his face - the bard was a notoriously chaotic sleeper and tended to wake up at least a few feet from where he’d passed out when they camped outdoors.  
  
He held Jaskier’s hand in his own, tracing the soft lines of his palm, the fading blue and purple bruises on his wrist, before placing it back on the bed between them.  
  
As he moved to get up, wanting to give Roach an early-morning snack and check on Yen’s progress, a muffled whimper made him pause.  
  
He moved aside one of the pillows - and there were far too many fucking pillows, but Jaskier insisted they all remain on the bed, hoarding them on his side as a dragon would its treasure trove.  
  
And Jaskier’s shoulders were shaking, eyes darting wildly back and forth beneath closed lids. A nightmare. Understandable, considering the hell they’d been through.  
  
Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s arm and gave him a shake, but the bard’s eyes remained screwed shut. And fuck, the sudden movement seemed to make the nightmare worse - his legs became tangled in the soft sheets, left arm tense and trembling violently with its hand balled up in a fist at his side. His mouth moved as he tried to form words over soft, broken moans. Not good.  
  
“Damn it, Jaskier. Wake _up_.”  
  
At the sound of Geralt’s voice the bard began thrashing about, threatening to damage his shoulder further. Geralt cursed, moving on top of him in an attempt to subdue his erratic movements, when Jaskier’s left arm was suddenly clawing at him, blunt nails leaving long red marks on his bare chest. He tried to pin it down, but it moved unpredictably and before he knew it, there was a white-knuckled grip on his throat.  
  
“Jaskier! You little - ”  
  
Geralt was growling, trying to pry the hand off his neck, freezing as the bones of one of Jaskier’s long, thin fingers creaked in protest as he underestimated his own strength. It wasn’t Jaskier, he could tell by the almost feral, fight-or-flight way his arm moved as it tried wringing his neck with reckless abandon.  
  
Fortunately, the body beneath him stilled suddenly - fingers still squeezing, vice-like, but as soon as Geralt saw dazed blue eyes flickering he released the bard’s hand. Cautiously, he stroked Jaskier’s cheek in an attempt to coax him back to reality.  
  
“What on _earth_ \- “  
  
The question died in the bard’s throat as soon as his confused and then subsequently alarmed gaze settled on his left hand.  
  
And Geralt, who was handling being throttled _reasonably_ well, flared his nostrils, starting to see little white spots. As its owner regained his senses the hand released him, falling back to the bed with a soft thud.  
  
That was how they ended up sitting in silence, Jaskier’s knees pressed to his chest, as far from Geralt as the bed would allow. Needless to say, he was not taking it well.  
  
The Witcher went to put a hand on his arm but cringed as the bard pressed himself further into the headboard to escape the touch.  
  
“Jask - “  
  
“Wha- _what_ the fuck was _that_? I could have killed you!”  
  
Geralt snorted at that, which earned him a pointed glare. “I’m fine, Jaskier.”  
  
“I do _not_ think you’re taking this seriously enough, Geralt. No, this...this is bad. Very, very, very bad.” Jaskier’s eyes darted nervously to the other man’s neck, obscured now by his collar. “You should tie me up, I fear I’m a danger to - Geralt, why are you _laughing_? Stop it!”  
  
Geralt sighed, pulling aside his shirt to reveal already fading, finger-shaped bruises. “Witcher, remember?” Jaskier seemed relieved by that, relaxing minutely from where he’d scrounged himself into a little ball. “And no offense, Jaskier, but you have the grip strength of a small child.”  
  
Jaskier gasped. “My grip strength is just _fine_.“  
  
“My point is you’re not a danger. Not to me, at least.”  
  
The bard fell silent and worried his lip as he considered this. After a beat he scooted a little closer, taking Geralt’s hand into his.  
  
“Geralt, I want to tell you - ”  
  
They were interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. Geralt groaned, reluctantly pulling his hand away as the knocking persisted, louder this time.  
  
He opened the door to reveal a very nervous-looking man holding a metal tray stacked with various breakfast foods. When he saw the Witcher he nearly jumped out of his skin, the tray and its contents jangling dangerously as his hands shook.  
  
“Y-Yennefer of Vengerberg requested both of you in her study at once. No d-dawdling. She said to say that, Witcher, sir. And to bring you this. Sir.”  
  
Geralt let him squirm under his unwavering gaze a moment longer before grabbing the tray with a grunt and slamming the door. Jaskier plucked a grape from the tray and popped it in his mouth with a playful little smirk. “Wow, way to throw the guy a _bone_ , Geralt. Sheesh.”  
  
He went to grab another but Geralt pulled it just out of reach.  
  
“You were saying?”  
  
“Oh, _really_? Unbelievable. Fine. You are the kindest, loveliest Witcher to ever grace the planet and you piss _rainbows_ \- “  
  
“Rainbows? That’s a new one.” Geralt raised an amused brow and handed Jaskier the entire bloody vine before setting the tray down. “But that’s not what I meant, Jaskier. Before.”  
  
“Ah. _That_.” Jaskier suddenly looked serious, though the effect was diminished slightly by the fact that he had put far too many grapes in his mouth and was now talking around them. “It’s just...I have a bad _feeling_ , Geralt. I’m trying to imagine all of the ways this story might end and...if we’re ever in a situation where you have to choose between me and yourself, I need to know you won’t be _stupid_ about it.”  
  
It took Geralt a moment to realize what the bard meant, what he _actually_ meant and he couldn’t help but think back to all of the times where he’d been forced to _choose_. That thought alone had him closing the space between them, wrapping his arm around Jaskier’s narrow waist to pull him closer still.  
  
“No. It won’t come to that.” His voice was muffled from where he had his face nestled in Jaskier’s soft hair, tickling his nostrils. The bard smelled like lavender and sleep and nerves.  
  
Jaskier huffed a small laugh into his neck. “You know just stating things doesn’t make them true, _Geralt_.” When he pulled back to look up at Geralt, he was smiling, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. And _then_ he noticed their close proximity and flushed, clearing his throat. “N-now let’s go find Yennefer. You know, before she sends someone else to ‘sir’ us to death.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The castle was bustling as its staff madly prepared for some sort of event, and by the time they navigated their way through the crowded hallways to Yennefer’s study it was late in the morning.  
  
The sorceress was poring over a very familiar small object with a magnifying glass that instantly had Jaskier making obscene gagging noises. “We just _ate_ , Yennefer, can you please - “ he stopped suddenly when despite his attempts to avert his eyes, he noticed something off about the item. “Hang on, has it gotten bigger? Oh, fuck, that’s - that is dis _gusting_ , it’s nearly the size of my bloody _hand_!”  
  
“What does it mean, Yen?”  
  
Yennefer straightened, placing the thing in a small box and slipping it in her drawer, locking it with a small key. “It means it’s getting worse. You’ve been lucky, you know, blundering around like you two idiots have been. If any harm were to fall upon this, the effects would be disastrous.”  
  
“Why - “  
  
“ _Idiots_ \- “  
  
She cut them both off. “I can’t say for sure. I’d imagine the curse would become irreversible, at the very least. Think of it as a part of you. Your key back to...whatever it is you call normalcy. But it’s nothing we need to worry about now - I think I’ve found a solution. All I’m missing are a few ingredients.”  
  
Jaskier took the slip of paper she had pulled out of one of the books on her desk, and upon reading the handwritten notes on it, looked a little green around the edges. “ _F-fresh_ bloater guts? As opposed to dirty rotten _old_ bloater guts?”  
  
Yennefer smirked. And oh, she was enjoying this just a little too much. “Only the best for you, Jaskier.”  
  
As Jaskier continued reading off ingredients - “eyeballs, Yennefer?” - and growing paler by the second, Geralt glanced over his shoulder at the list. “This is for an immunity potion. Why?”  
  
“Well, to protect him from the tracking spell I’m going to cast tonight, of course. In case your little witch friend gets any ideas.”  
  
“Potion? No, no no, _no_ \- ”  
  
“Tracking spell?” Geralt growled, scrutinizing the sorceress. “That would work both ways. She’ll know where he is.”  
  
“Hello-o-o? I am not _drinking_ \- “  
  
“Hence the _potion_ , Geralt. I know what I’m doing. Now please, be a good boy and go harvest these putrid ingredients for your...” she looked Jaskier up and down, who returned it with an annoyed glare of his own, “old _friend_ here.”  
  
“I’m sorry, _which_ birthday will you be celebrating this year, Yennefer? Come on, Geralt. Let’s go kill some...whatevers for their...something-or-others.”  
  
As the bard made for the door Geralt put a hand on his arm. And oh, gods, Jaskier knew that look - knew what was coming next.  
  
“No, Jaskier. You’re still wounded. You have to stay. And we’re not doing this until I know exactly what you have planned, Yen.”  
  
“ _No_ , Geralt, don’t - don’t _leave_ me with this...this...”  
  
Yennefer quirked a brow, looking amused. And Geralt was hitching his swords up on his back - _leaving_ him with the very scary witch.  
  
“Come on. You can think of an insult on the way. I have business to take care of and you attract far too much trouble on your own.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Geralt stormed back to the mansion after spending the afternoon ripping apart monsters and rooting around their corpses. For some reason, the thought of leaving Jaskier’s side for even a moment was fucking difficult (and sure, he’d need to revisit that ridiculous instinct at some point, but not now), and it put him in a _mood_. It was a gross change, one he specifically remembered telling Jaskier he never wanted.  
  
To amuse himself he pictured the bard spending an afternoon with Yen circling him like some sort of predator, and snorted. She got sick delight in making people squirm, and Jaskier seemed to be her favorite contender - the perfect combination of snarky and scared shitless for her little games.  
  
The valet directed him to the courtyard and as he stepped outside, covered head to toe in guts and blood, he was greeted with a sight that was somehow _far_ more terrifying than anything he could have imagined.  
  
Jaskier and Yennefer were seated across from each other beneath a sun-dappled, lily-white pavilion. They were sipping a light pink wine, and on the table between them sat a chessboard.  
  
They were _laughing_.  
  
After a moment’s consideration the bard went to make his move, oblivious to the somewhat bewildered man drilling holes in his back. His arm was now in a comfortable-looking sling.  
  
Yennefer saw the Witcher first, and Jaskier turned to see what she was smirking about.  
  
“Is that the cheese? I’m fam - _oh_ , Geralt!” His nose crinkled as he took in Geralt’s appearance - Geralt cursed the way his stomach flipped at how excited the other man sounded upon seeing him. “Good gods, did you rip them apart with your bare _hands_? Is any of it yours, are - are you all right?”  
  
As Jaskier scanned him for any signs of injury, Geralt stalked towards them and tossed the small, leaking sack of monster guts on the table, making the bard yelp, nearly falling out of his seat.  
  
“Got everything you need.” Geralt said, taking a seat next to Jaskier on the iron bench - the bard cringed and scooted away as a little bit of brain matter slid off Geralt’s pauldron and landed beside him with a _plop_. He looked between the two, amused. “What is this?”  
  
“I’ve put him under my spell. Easier that way.”  
  
Jaskier barked a laugh but then stopped, eyes widening considerably. “Wait, _have_ you?”  
  
She smirked and took the sack of intestines and tongues and whatever other godsforsaken bits Geralt had harvested. “I’m going to start working on the potion immediately - Jaskier told me about your little incident this morning, which means we don’t have much time.” Geralt stood to follow, scowling when she wagged a finger at him. “No, no. You two have a fitting with my tailor.”  
  
Yennefer was gone before Geralt could ask what the fuck _that_ meant, and when he turned back to Jaskier, the bard’s suddenly cagey demeanor tipped him off. “A fucking tailor, Jaskier?”  
  
“Well...there’s a teeny tiny, sort of... _ball_ happening tonight, and since the spell takes - I think she said a day, maybe? An hour, I don’t know, I’ve had a lot of wine...anyway, we’re going. To the ball.”


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally stumbled upon the full (not looped) version of Fishmonger’s Daughter and it’s !!! 99% just ba’s and da’s but ahh, so cute. Highly recommend if you want to hear baby Jaskier vibing tf out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ye olde ‘type a small novel where nothing you wanted to happen, happens.’

Jaskier peered at Geralt over the tailor’s shoulder as he heard a deep, rumbling sound - the man, who was reportedly the best in the city, had remained very calm through most of the process but now he was visibly trembling, hands frozen where they had been pinning fabric up along the Witcher’s inner thigh.  
  
“Geralt, are you _growling_ at the poor man? Don’t worry - he’s positively _harmless_ , just a little cranky because he’s being forced to do something nice for a change.”  
  
The tailor seemed to relax a bit, making sure his hands were very, _very_ steady as they continued up the seam. “I assure you, sir, this invitation is an honor. You’ll be rubbing elbows with all of the city’s elite tonight. To be a fly on the wall - “  
  
Another growl interrupted his little monologue and he yelped, dropping a pin on the floor, composure gone as fast as he’d regained it. “I could give a shit about the limp dicks at court.” A scathing glare at Jaskier. “And I’m not cranky. I’m angry.”  
  
Jaskier waved him off, instead occupying himself by fluttering about the room and examining all of the mannequins that sported the city’s latest trends. “Oh, this is anger? It’s just so very hard to discern the subtle complexities of your foul moods, Geralt.” He wasn’t serious, of course. He knew _exactly_ what had the Witcher seething atop the little pedestal.  
  
“Yes, this is anger. Anger at _you_ , for agreeing to this idiotic affair while a curse works its way through your system like a fucking virus.”  
  
At that last part the tailor squeaked, glancing fearfully at Jaskier before gathering his measuring tape and notepad, bowing clumsily as he backed away. “Well, that’s all I need, good sirs, so I’ll just be - “  
  
“It’s not - it’s not _contagious_ , he was being para _bolic_ \- ah, he’s gone. Brilliant, Geralt. Fantastic work.” Jaskier huffed and peered at the washbasin in the corner of the room. “Aww, no - he was supposed to shave your lovely beard!”  
  
Geralt stepped off the pedestal, grunting as he extracted a pin from his left calf. “There’s nothing wrong with my beard.”  
  
“No, of course not. You’re looking better than ever after a week in a bloody swamp, having accomplished the bare _minimum_ of personal hygiene by bathing in a spring.” Jaskier hurried excitedly over to the basin and tapped the seat of the chair, gesturing for the stubborn man to sit. “Come, come. Just a little trim. I won’t strip you of your scruff.”  
  
The Witcher glared at him for a moment, but as Jaskier grabbed the boar bristle brush and started mixing the cream in a bowl with warm water - difficult to do, he realized belatedly, with only his right hand - he grumbled and took a seat. He held the bowl as the bard whipped it into a nice, fluffy consistency.  
  
Once that was done, Jaskier dipped a towel in the warm water, wringing it out and laying it across Geralt’s face. His fingers moved to press into his temples, drawing a firm, soothing line along his jaw - and as much as he wanted to remain irritated, the feeling was nice. Made better by the fact that this new angle allowed him a clear view of Jaskier’s face, tongue poking out slightly between soft lips as he concentrated on preparing Geralt’s skin.  
  
“It’s just a measly ball, you know.” Jaskier murmured, removing the towel and applying the cream. Nimble fingers made one sure stroke with the freshly-sharpened blade. “I already gave you permission to whisk me away, should anything... _untoward_ happen.”  
  
Geralt grunted. “I don’t care about the damn ball, Jaskier. I care that you’re safe.” Another purposeful stroke. “Yen is powerful, but she’s also reckless. Overconfident.”  
  
The bard dipped the razor in the water and then went back in with a soft sigh, tilting Geralt’s chin up to get a better angle. “She’s thought this through, Geralt. I drink the lovely...monster bits. She casts the spell. By morning the map will show where that bloody witch is hiding. And you go and - and - _kill the bitch_ \- “  
  
Jaskier’s voice faltered suddenly as the uncharacteristically violent words spilled from his lips. Geralt, whose eyes were closed as he enjoyed the bard’s gentle ministrations, looked up to see what had happened.  
  
One trembling hand held the razor, a hair’s breadth away from Geralt’s jugular. Jaskier’s eyes seemed to go in and out of focus as he stared longingly at the throbbing vein, licking his lips at the way it bobbed when Geralt swallowed.  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
He hovered there for a moment before something clicked; he seemed to come back to himself and continued shaving Geralt as though nothing had happened. “Anyway, we ask her very nicely to _please_ lift this pesky little curse - and also stop trying to _kill_ you, and - what now, Geralt?”  
  
The Witcher gently took the blade from Jaskier’s hand, ignoring his noises of protest. He didn’t want to alarm the bard, but there had been something unnatural in his eyes. Hungry.  
  
“I’ll finish.” Despite his grievances about the sorceress’s rash nature, he gruffly added, “We need to get to Yen and start the spell. Now.”

♜ ♖

Jaskier eyed the brew suspiciously. It was an awful brownish color, bubbling slightly despite the fact that it was now room temperature, contained in a small bottle.  
  
“I thought we were _friends_ , Yennefer, yet you’ve somehow made bloater guts look even less appealing. And oh, gods. The _smell_.”  
  
Yennefer was clearing her desk to make room for the massive map they were to use for the spell. “I’ve fixed you a lovely drink to wash it down, so shut up and get it over with already, you royal pain in the arse.”  
  
With a dramatic sigh, Jaskier downed the liquid - and promptly choked, nearly spitting it out on the carpet as the pungent taste hit him. He floundered a moment before Geralt took the empty bottle and passed him the second, far more pleasant liquid, which he downed gratefully.  
  
“You - you - are you _trying_ to kill me? Ugh, why was it so thick? Like... _soup_. I think I’m going to be sick.”  
  
The sorceress rolled her eyes. “Yes, Jaskier. This has all been an elaborate plot to poison you. However did you figure it out?”  
  
“Ha-bloody- _ha_.”  
  
Geralt sniffed at the empty bottle, frowning. “Lovely. How will this protect him?”  
  
“Well, assuming he doesn’t do anything rash - and I know, that’s _always_ a possibility, so I made it extra potent. Nothing short of complete buffoonery will break it.”  
  
Jaskier narrowed his eyes, but yes, he considered himself to be at least acutely self-aware so he just _had_ to ask, “What sort of buffoonery?”  
  
“That I don’t know. Continue resisting, don’t give into any ridiculous urges.” She placed her hands on either side of the map, studying it. “She’s clever, that much is clear. There’s some trigger that I can’t protect you from, even with a potion this strong. You’ve avoided it thus far, so just keep a clear head and alert me if anything changes. If only I knew which blasted incantation she used, I might be able to figure it out, but...”  
  
“No buffoonery. G-got it. I think.”  
  
Geralt was pacing again. “This plan is too dangerous.”  
  
“Using Jaskier’s connection to the mage _is_ the only way - she’s taken all the right precautions. Now go, get ready for the evening while I start the incantations. Your clothes should have been delivered to your room by now.”  
  
That was all the convincing Jaskier needed, apparently, because within moments he was flying out the door towards the wonderful prospect of new clothes (that weren’t scavenged from a _bog body_ ). Geralt went to follow him when Yennefer placed a hand on his arm, regarding him with a serious look.  
  
“Keep him close tonight. There’s no potion to protect him from himself.”  
  
Geralt nodded. As though he needed her to tell him that. “I will, Yen.”  
  
A sly grin. “Not _too_ close, though - else his head explode.”  
  
“...I’m walking away now, Yen.” 

♜ ♖

It took them awhile to bathe, dress, and make their way down to the great hall; Jaskier had taken the longest, mostly because he couldn’t stop cackling at how many frills the tailor had added to Geralt’s tunic.  
  
By the time they made their entrance, the hall was packed with laughter, music, and dancing. The grand duke was celebrating the engagement of his niece to a renowned knight, apparently, and the affair was consequently very, very jolly.  
  
Jaskier swiped a flagon of mead from a passing serving tray. “Do you think if I get drunk enough the curse will cancel itself out? One ballad, Geralt, that’s all I ask.”  
  
The Witcher snorted, remembering how the bard’s attempt at ‘Toss a Coin’ had turned out. “I’d really like to see you try.”  
  
He got a little shove in return, the other man unable to contain his somewhat embarrassed grin. “Oh, would you now? How _indecorous_ of y -“  
  
“Geralt of Rivia!” a voice boomed suddenly; from the dais, they could see the grand duke - a very large, rosy-cheeked man - and Yennefer waving cheekily from where she stood beside him.  
  
Jaskier let out an exasperated sigh into is drink. “Oh, bollocks. Here it comes.”  
  
“Fuck. Let me get this over with.” Geralt hissed back, stalking towards the grinning man. He no doubt wanted to hear some dramatized anecdotes from Geralt’s hunts - people seemed to live for that shit, just as the Witcher lived for disappointing them.  
  
“I was wondering who’d been keeping my mage so... _occupied_ , but the lovely Yennefer only sang your praise. No doubt you have some thrilling tales to regale us with.”  
  
The grand duke’s tone wasn’t nearly as pleasant as it could have been - demanding in a ‘dance for me, fool’ sort of way. His broad smile hardly reached his eyes as he sized up the man before him.  
  
Geralt stole a glance at Yen to see her blanch at being referred to in such a frivolous manner. He offered the man a forced, toothy grimace.  
  
“I think the ‘lovely Yennefer’ has far more thrilling tales to tell. I’m here to drink, nothing more.”  
  
There was a tense moment between them, before the man broke out into a hearty laugh - all for show, of course. There was no need for violence on what was meant to be a joyous day. And Geralt had learned that there were far scarier things in the world than privileged men who weren’t used to being told no.  
  
After things had settled, Geralt stepped up beside Yen, arms crossed over his chest. “How do we know when the spell takes?”  
  
Yen scoffed, sipping her wine. “You know, our friend here is a vengeful man. I’m here to keep him from trying to form a kingdom of his own. Composed of _nobles_. So self-indulgent.”  
  
“ _Yen_.”  
  
“All work and no play. I’ve got it handled - this will glow and turn hot the second we’ve found our mark.” She displayed a simple silver bracelet, fastened about a dainty wrist. “You might want to keep an eye on your boy, though.”  
  
Geralt followed her gaze and saw Jaskier - true to form, he was currently backing away from a very-red faced, very _angry_ gentleman.

♜ ♖

“I’m sorry, I don’t know who you _are_ and no, I don’t know _why_ I’m still alive! I’m hurt that you feel the need to ask, to be quite honest.”  
  
Jaskier backed away from the man, matching his every step until he felt his back collide with the wall.  
  
The man shoved a finger into Jaskier’s chest, spitting on him as he spoke. “You lily-livered little shitling! I should have known that bounty wasn’t enough for someone as slippery as you.” He shoved his finger into the bard’s chest again, harder this time, glaring at the arm cradled in his sling. “Well, go on - fight back!”  
  
Jaskier, who had clearly not yet put the pieces together, yelled with him but mostly in fear, not rage. “I don’t know _what_ you’re talking about!”  
  
This made his attacker pause for a moment, finally taking in Jaskier’s arm. The bruises on his wrists. “I guess they did me one better, in the long run. What use is a bard with one arm?”  
  
That was when it all clicked for Jaskier - when he registered the word ‘bounty’ and finally understood the man’s blood thirst. Remembered which _city_ he was in. Unfortunately, his mouth spoke before his thoughts could comprehend.  
  
“Ah, the _viscountess_ \- ”  
  
The punch never landed, however - Jaskier was cut off by the sight of Geralt, the man’s fist clenched within his own crippling grip, squeezing tight enough to crack bone when he attempted to shake free.  
  
“Back off the bard.”  
  
Upon seeing just who had his arm in a vice-like, bone-shattering grip, the nobleman stood strong. Not a bad man by nature, but by circumstance. “I don’t know your stake in this, Witcher, but I have no quarrel with you. Or him, as long as that arms remains...” Jaskier dared him to say it. And with no regard for his own being, he did. “ _flaccid_.”  
  
A finger cracked beneath Geralt’s unforgiving grip - he understood the situation immediately, and had no remorse as the man screamed beneath him.  
  
Jaskier was on Geralt before he could do worse. “No, let’s go...go...” scanning for anything helpful, noticing the dance that continued despite the loud disturbance. “There! C-come dance with me, Geralt. He’s not worth it.” Soft blue eyes found his. “ _Please_.”  
  
After a very long, breathless moment Geralt relented, releasing the man and appreciating the way he continued screaming and cursing as he ran off. The commotion, fortunately, had not incited a drunken _brawl_ \- and true to his word, Jaskier led them to the middle of the room where couples danced, unphased by any surrounding drama.  
  
Geralt’s hand was on his hip, then, and he realized they made quite the spectacle as he settled his own on the taller man’s shoulder. The Witcher wasn’t a skilled dancer and the bard took the lead, guiding him through delicate movements, gasping just a _little_ when Geralt switched gears and lifted him at the exact right moment.  
  
As the dance slowed and their hands remained securely in place, Geralt searched Jaskier’s face, trying to assess any unseen damage, physical or otherwise. In the other’s arms, Jaskier had absolutely _no_ grievances.  
  
“It’s kind of funny, if you think about it. All that to kill me when an evil witch is trying it for free.”  
  
Geralt frowned, nuzzling his nose into Jaskier’s neck as they moved closer, smelling his sweat and the fragrance from his bath. When they moved apart he continued examining the bard. “I don’t find it funny at all, Jaskier.”  
  
“Well, that’s why you - “ Jaskier stiffened a bit, his grip on Geralt’s hip intensifying to a somewhat uncomfortable degree. “ _You should have bathed in his filthy blood and made him watch, Geralt._ ”


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Please go check out @drowninginchamomiletea ‘s wonderful fic ‘Speak Your Mind,’ where the roles are reversed and Geralt is the one who gets spelled! ♡ ♡ ♡
> 
> I hope this chapter isn’t too dramatic lmao, I was in a MOOD!

“Jaskier, what’s happening?”  
  
Geralt glanced down at the hand on his hip, slender fingers digging into the soft fabric of his shirt, nails leaving deep half-moon imprints on the skin beneath. He put his own hand over it to soothe - they had stopped moving, were standing still in the middle of what had evolved into some sort of jig.  
  
That strange perversion of Jaskier’s usually very gentle, honest countenance had returned and when Geralt went to guide him off the dance floor the bard went rigid. He looked like an animal that had been backed into a corner, ready to pounce at any moment. After his attempts to gently move the smaller man failed, Geralt put a hand on his cheek.  
  
He stole a furtive glance to where Yen had been standing. Key word _had_ , because now there was no sign of the raven-haired sorceress. Fuck.  
  
“Jaskier. Come back - ”  
  
“You _heard_ me, Witcher. I want you to slice him _up_ into little - ”  
  
The venomous, oily words slithering out from between the bard’s lips were cut off as a pair of dancers collided into them - they kept their footing for a moment before Jaskier lurched dangerously to get out of his arms and they both went tumbling to the ground.  
  
When blue eyes found his, they were bright and confused. “Geralt, why...” he edged out of the way with a squeak as a foot nearly crushed his hand. The woman it belonged to shot him a look. “Oh, _so_ sorry to inconvenience you. Unbe _lievable_. Can you believe this, Geralt?”  
  
Geralt muttered some sort of agreement, unable to take his eyes off Jaskier as he helped him up. The fight had left him just as soon as he’d hit the floor, it seemed, and now he was eager to follow Geralt away from the noise and excitement.  
  
When they reached an empty hallway, Jaskier slowed a bit, stubbornly resisting Geralt’s guiding hand as it tried to pull him the rest of the way to their room. “Slow down, Geralt. Just tell me what _happened_.”  
  
Geralt paused, regarded him carefully. “You were gone.” He turned to start walking again but Jaskier made a frustrated noise, yanking his hand from the other man’s.  
  
“Gone? Do you always have to be so bloody _vague_ \- where did I go? What does that even _mean_?”  
  
This time, Geralt rounded on him angrily - and Jaskier was used to being the object of the Witcher’s ire, but this was different, somehow. Worse, because it was mingled with fear. “Damn it, Jaskier! Can you never just do as you’re fucking told? You’re always _complicating_ everything - just - fuck, I’m sorry, just come with me. You need to lie down while I find Yen.”  
  
Jaskier suddenly felt rage bubbling in his chest, and although he wasn’t sure it was entirely his own, he accepted it, shoving Geralt away.  
  
“Oh, well that’s rich coming from you, Geralt. You want to talk to me about shoveling shit? Because I seem to remember the djinn _very_ differently, and - “  
  
“That was a mistake, Jask - “  
  
“And now this bloody curse! Yet _I’m_ the one who complicates things? You’re at the very center of _every_ awful event in my life and when this is done I want to be as far away from you as _possible_!”  
  
A flicker of hurt crossed Geralt’s face and Jaskier froze, dumbfounded at his own words. All the bard could muster was a soft “well, fuck” before Geralt wordlessly stalked away.  
  
As they came upon the room, Geralt pulled a key from his pocket and gestured for Jaskier to enter. “I’m sorry, Jaskier, but you’re not yourself. It’s getting worse...I’m going to get Yen. You should lie down.”  
  
The bard watched, numb and trembling a bit with residual anger and adrenaline, as Geralt hovered at the door for a moment, torn, before closing it. Jaskier flinched as he heard the lock click, Geralt’s heavy, purposeful steps fading away as he turned a corner.  
  
In the box in Yennefer’s desk drawer, the small black ball popped and sizzled before melting into the tiny plush cushion it was sat upon. 

__

__

♜ ♖

As Jaskier sat miserably on the bed - more like worried pouting, honestly, because things had been so nice at the start of the evening and now they were snowballing out of _control_ \- he gradually became aware of an odd nagging feeling in the back of his mind.  
  
Without thinking, he stood and rummaged through the pile of Geralt’s armor until he found a small stiletto blade. As he stared at the the silver in his hand, the way the light from the fireplace made it gleam, the nagging feeling intensified to a pain that started at the base of his skull and worked its way up to his temples.  
  
He groaned and tried to shake it off but it became too much and he was suddenly on his knees, hunched over, ribs pumping like bellows with sharp, painful gasps - the hand clutching the hilt of the dagger like a lifeline as it flew up to touch and soothe his pounding head.  
  
Geralt’s name played in his mind on a deafening loop and he shook his head, whimpering, curling in on himself. His left hand had freed itself from its sling and was clawing at the carpet beneath him, fingers digging in further with each fresh wave of agony.  
  
The chorus of _Geralt, Geralt, Geralt_ intensified and he became aware of a thin, shrill noise behind it, filling the large room, bouncing off its cavernous walls. He realized belatedly that it was him, he was _screaming_ , felt like his head might pop like a grape if this continued -  
  
Clumsily he stood, grabbing onto the back of a chair for support, trying to make his way to the door, to _Geralt_ , but another spasm sent him tumbling back to the ground, taking the chair with him.  
  
Even as he landed on the floor he felt like he was still falling, falling into empty space beneath him and he once again curled into a ball. He heard a laugh somewhere, cold and cruel, but when he opened his eyes to see who it was he found his vision was blurred with _tears_ , and he so rarely ever _cried_ \- he knew then that he had to be dying.  
  
_Geralt, Geralt, Geralt._  
  
He pressed further into himself, trying to disappear.  
  
_Kill, kill, killkillkill_ -  
  
He barely registered the words before succumbing to inky blackness.

♜ ♖

Geralt stormed back to the room. It hadn’t taken long to find Yen - he’d tracked her familiar scent to a dark corner of the mansion where she’d been meeting with a very irate nobleman.  
  
As soon as he’d informed her of what happened she cursed at him for leaving Jaskier, telling him to go back at once and bring him to her study while she checked on the spell’s progress. “Full body possession is a very different story, Geralt, you should have told me _immediately_ , the first time it happened.”  
  
When he opened the door to their room he breathed a sigh of relief upon seeing the bard sitting upright on the bed. He seemed fine, if not a bit sweaty.  
  
“Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed excitedly, getting up and bounding over to him as though he hadn’t just told the other man to leave him alone forever.  
  
As Jaskier drew closer, reaching for him, Geralt’s senses were suddenly attacked by the sharp scent of bile. He scanned the room and saw it, a small stain on the carpet where the bard had been ill.  
  
“Jaskier, are you okay? What...” he noticed a chair was overturned. Linen sling discarded on the floor. He’d been gone only ten minutes, maybe less. “the hell happened?”  
  
Jaskier followed his gaze and shrugged, taking another step closer until he was standing in the doorway, now inches away. “A bloody awful headache. I thought I was going to die. It stopped, but still...I’m _scared_ , Geralt.”  
  
He certainly didn’t look scared, and despite everything in the Witcher’s being screaming for him to get the fuck out, he found himself pulling Jaskier closer, into the brighter light of the hall, to get a better look at him. His eyes seemed fine, not clouded or _feral_ as they tended to get when he was under the influence of the curse. Perhaps he was in shock.  
  
Gently, he extracted himself just slightly from Jaskier’s embrace, brushing a stray lock of soft brown hair back from his face. “Let’s go to Yen, she’s in her study, she’ll know - “  
  
He was cut off as the bard abruptly crashed their lips together in an aggressive kiss. One hand was on Geralt’s back, guiding him forward until their bodies were flush against each other, pulling a deep, rumbling groan from the larger man.  
  
As soon as he felt nimble fingers going for his belt, however, Geralt gently but _firmly_ put a hand on Jaskier’s chest. The bard whined impatiently.  
  
“Geralt, I _need_ you. I didn’t mean what I said. I want you,” a slightly deranged giggle escaped Jaskier’s lips as he paused, seemingly listening to something Geralt couldn’t hear. “ _have_ wanted you, for so long, pining like some pathetic, lovesick little _puppy_ , aching for your - ”  
  
Geralt roughly grabbed Jaskier’s elbow, shaking him, trying to snap him out of whatever this was. He didn’t like that tone...mocking, cruel. “ _Stop it_.”  
  
Another mad laugh had Jaskier doubling over in Geralt’s grip, before he leered up at the man, lips and cheeks bright red from the kiss. There was a sound like wind through a tunnel that filled the hallway, and above it Geralt could just barely hear a frantic voice calling his name.  
  
He turned his head to see Yennefer barreling down the hall towards them, brandishing the bracelet on her wrist, which was red and irritated as the silver band pulsed and burned into her skin. He couldn’t hear her over the oppressive, all-encompassing rushing noise that enveloped them, and found he couldn’t move his body, immobilized by an invisible force.  
  
She was pointing behind him now, eyes wild and panicked, chanting something by the looks of it and then promptly choking on the words, hand flying up to her throat -  
  
He realized too late that Jaskier was grinning - pain exploded after a short delay as the smaller man’s left hand, which had gone unaccounted for in all the mayhem, drove a dagger into his back, savagely twisting and snickering at the way Geralt grunted and staggered into him.  
  
“I have to say, I’m a little disappointed.” Jaskier’s voice as he glanced down at his own body, his other hand holding Geralt in place like a puppet with the hilt of his blade, relishing in the strained groan he extracted by giving it another twist. “I thought your tastes would be a bit more exotic, Geralt of Rivia. Ah, well. Time for the finale.”  
  
Through the haze of sudden, unexpected pain he was acutely aware of the rancid smell of wicked magic mingling with his own blood - and he couldn’t fucking move, could only watch as Jaskier’s arm snaked around his waist, dragging him into the portal that had formed behind them.  
  
Yennefer choked as her throat filled with ash, a force bearing down on her as she watched the two men fall into the portal - she couldn’t reach it in time, had managed to get to her feet and continue running as soon as they vanished. Her hand ghosted through the residual crackling energy it left behind, losing her balance and falling to her knees on the marble floor.  
  
With a curse she ripped the bracelet off her arm, the suffocating feeling in her throat subsiding to a dull ache, and sprinted back to her study.  
  
A hole was burning a spot into the map, all the way through to the desk beneath. Without a second thought she conjured a portal of her own and hopped through.


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh big climax!!! Big confessions!! I need a nap after writing this chapter, oml
> 
> Also there is a short self-harm scene, it happens while the person is possessed but if you would rather avoid it, the section starts with the sentence “he eyed the dagger” and is over by the paragraph starting with “he needed to reach him somehow” !!!

As the portal spat Geralt out and sent him crashing into damp, solid ground, he felt Jaskier’s body go limp, splaying out bonelessly beside him.  
  
He hissed as the dagger shifted from where it was currently sticking out of his back, but when he reached to pull it out he felt a force yanking his arms behind him, shackles clasping about his wrists. When he flexed and tried to use one of his powers, he found they were suppressed. Dimeritium.  
  
Craning his neck, he watched as the chain moved on its own, placing itself into a sturdy hook that jutted out from dank stone walls. He gritted his teeth and tugged experimentally at the bonds, to no avail.  
  
”I’m afraid it won’t be that easy, Witcher. But by all means, keep struggling. It’s a delight to watch.”  
  
Geralt nearly snapped his own neck with how fast he turned to see who had spoken - a woman was steadying herself on the wall at the other end of what appeared to be a large cave, fingers massaging her temples as she recovered from the effects of possessing Jaskier’s now motionless body.  
  
She had long, blonde curls and soft features, and although the gentle curve of her jaw and distinctive bottle green color of her eyes seemed familiar, Geralt realized he didn’t know this woman at all.  
  
He gave his chains another yank and growled as he was only met with a spike of pain in his back and a hollow, rattling sound that bounced off the walls. Judging by the dampness in the air they were near the water, perhaps under it. “You’re not...”  
  
Having regained her composure she straightened, adjusting her tattered white dress and looking somewhat amused. He noticed she was barefoot. A bedroll in the corner of the cave told him this was her home. “Not what? Not who you expected?”  
  
“Who the fuck are you?”  
  
There was something else, at her feet, a seal painted on the floor and surrounded by small white votives. The same symbol that had appeared on Emmi’s hands, that he and Yen had been unable to decipher.  
  
She followed his gaze and smirked. “Tell me, Geralt of Rivia, who _were_ you expecting?”  
  
Geralt frowned as he tried to remember. He was starting to feel the effects of blood loss, and it had been decades ago - he could barely remember what she looked like, but her _name_... “Someone else. Astrid.”  
  
“My sister.”  
  
Fuck. “You’re...”  
  
“Annika. What a _fun_ little guessing game.”  
  
She took a few steps closer, watching as Geralt’s legs started to buckle. With a flick of her wrist she extracted the dagger slowly, like a corkscrew, vibrant eyes lighting up as the Witcher crumpled to his knees with a groan. The blade clattered to the floor.  
  
He focused on remaining calm, keeping his breathing even, and although his body was healing itself, the way the fabric of his shirt stuck to his back, wet with blood, told him it might not be fast enough.  
  
When he glanced down at Jaskier, pale and unmoving, his heart wrenched. “Is she here? I didn’t know, when I brought her in, what they’d do to her. I’m sorry. But this,” he gestured to his shackles, leering up at her, “is a bit fucking much.”  
  
A flash of anger crossed Annika’s face and she abruptly kneed him in the stomach, sending a fresh wave of pain radiating throughout his body. He didn’t give her the satisfaction she was looking for, though, and refused to make a sound.  
  
She grabbed a handful of his hair and lifted his head, not flinching as he spat in her face. “And what, pray tell, did they say they did to her? A rap on the wrist for being a bad girl? No, she’s not here, you idiot. She’s dead.”  
  
Well, double fuck.  
  
Before Geralt could respond, she released him and approached Jaskier, placing a cold, pale hand on his cheek.  
  
“Stay the fuck away from him.”  
  
She snorted. “How gallant. It was a set up, you know. She spurned that disgusting lord’s advances, so he paid someone to hurt those children. Frame her. I was too young, and our parents had died the previous year. You couldn’t smell it, Witcher? Her fear, when they tortured and killed her?”  
  
Geralt shook his head, watching her hand like a hawk as she ran it through the bard’s messy hair. “I didn’t fucking know. I heard months later that she’d been exiled. Disfigured. She _confessed_ , to all of it.”  
  
“She thought they would have mercy if she did. Tell me, was it worth the coin? Did my sister’s demise fund a night at the brothel, or a few pints of ale?”  
  
“Stop _touching_ him.”  
  
Annika rolled her eyes, letting Jaskier’s head fall back to the dirt floor. It lolled to the side, unresponsive.  
  
“Um, I don’t think he _cares_ , Geralt. He’s gone. I’m pretty sure I melted his irritating little mind on my way in - well, not before I saw some of the obscene thoughts he had about _you_.”  
  
Geralt froze, and it felt like he’d been punched in the gut. He was suddenly very, very cold. “You what?”  
  
“I’d seen them before - fleeting snippets of _total_ filth. Back when the curse’s corruption started taking hold. Didn’t really know who I was possessing, actually, just that they were _very_ special. Your one and only, if you believe in that nonsense. I thought I would get someone useful - that powerful sorceress trying to portal in through my barriers like a maniac, for example.”  
  
She watched with cold detachment as the Witcher started struggling against his bonds, shouting the bard’s name. “Instead I got this measly welp, his grating thoughts, and absolutely no power to work with. Surprisingly resilient, though. Took a lot to get in his head.”  
  
Geralt barely heard her, bruising his wrists, bones screaming in protest as he tried to pull the chain from the wall, to reach Jaskier. He didn’t believe the bard could be gone, just like that. _Refused_ to. There had to be some way to break her hold, and the curse, if he could just learn more about it...  
  
Annika had apparently grown bored of his hysterics and walked back over to the makeshift altar on the floor, chanting a few words that had Geralt’s neck forcefully snapping back to look at her.  
  
“You’re not a very good _listener_ , are you?”  
  
“Fuck off.” he snarled, glaring at the symbol she was kneeling beside. She was a talker. He just needed to get her to talk _more_. Every curse had some sort of clause, a way out. “You made a deal with a demon, didn’t you? For power. To get inside him - get to me. At a cost. What was it, your first-born? Your humanity?”  
  
She barked a laugh, rough and humorless. “A demon, yes. It turned out to be such a _bloody_ romantic, insisted things had to be poetic - _hang on_.” Annika gave him an impish look. “You’re trying to figure out the loophole, aren’t you? You think you can still save him. Maybe I wasn’t clear - he’s nothing but an empty shell, and you are going to die a slow, painful death, Geralt.”  
  
Yen had been right, the woman was clever, but he’d learned more than enough from that. He had a hunch, just needed to break the damn chain - before he bled out, preferably.  
  
Suddenly, from where he was sprawled out on the ground, Jaskier groaned softly and murmured something unintelligible. Annika’s predatory gaze shifted to him, chasing away the relief Geralt felt upon hearing the bard’s voice.  
  
“Oh, would you look at that! Seems he’s still in there after all. I told you he’s annoyingly resilient, like a cockroach.” She rolled up her sleeves and placed her palms in the center of the seal. “Shall we see how long it takes to crush him?”  
  
Geralt became panicked, desperate, ignoring the way his whole body screamed in protest. He heard a crack, wasn’t sure if it was his thumb or the stones surrounding the hook in the wall. “No - fuck, leave him alone, don’t fucking touch...Jaskier - _Jaskier_ , look at me, you have to tell me your - “  
  
He choked on the words as she raised her hand, palm pointed at him. Her eyes were now jet black, hair raising all around her with crackling, static energy. The smell of sulphur filled the air.  
  
Jaskier’s eyes opened slowly, disoriented as they took in the scene before him: Geralt, bound and bleeding, scary demonic seal glowing on the floor, scarier _witch_ speaking in a guttural language - “oh, _fuck_ no, not again, what the - “  
  
The witch’s body fell in a heap as Jaskier’s words faltered and he let out a strangled cry. He writhed around on the floor, and Geralt could only watch as the bard clutched his head in agony.  
  
It was over quickly, however, and Jaskier straightened into a sitting position, legs splayed out in front of him as he experimentally wiggled his fingers and toes.  
  
“Ugh, as unpleasant as ever. Did you know he _sings_ in his head, when he’s scared? Pathetic. _Annoying_.”  
  
He eyed the dagger by Geralt’s foot, clicking his tongue as the man kicked it away. With stiff movements he crawled over and grabbed it, admiring the bloodstained silver. His other hand unbuttoned the top of his doublet, using the blade to slice off his bandages, casting a wicked little grin at Geralt.  
  
“This helped, you know. Losing his arm made him feel lost and vulnerable. Opened a door. His feelings for you, too.” He adjusted his grip on the hilt and slowly, painstakingly used the weapon to break one stitch, then a second. Blood oozed as the barely-healed skin reopened, not a waterfall as it had been when he first acquired the wound, but a slow, steady drip. “He hid it all. Ever the jester, lightening the mood with humor.” Another stitch. Geralt cursed and thrashed harder - felt the wall give behind him, for sure this time. A little more, and...  
  
Jaskier angled the dagger so that it was pointing down, threatening to plunge into tender, raw skin. “Since he won’t let me break his mind, I guess I’ll just cut this off. You can watch as your little songbird bleeds out. Now _that’s_ poetic. An eye for an eye.”  
  
Before he could start his gruesome amputation, Geralt gave one last vicious tug and the chain broke free from the wall. He vaulted himself at the bard, trying to wrestle the dagger from his grip.  
  
He needed to reach him somehow, to get him to say the one truth that he thought might break the curse, the one that might be poetic enough for a particularly sappy demon, but Jaskier struggled wildly beneath him.  
  
“Jaskier, I know you’re in there. How - _ow_ \- do you feel about me?”  
  
The erratic movements stopped as Jaskier looked up at him for a moment before cackling, using the distraction to jab the dagger into Geralt’s shoulder.  
  
He hissed and slammed the bard’s wrists back down into the ground, silently apologizing when he heard a bone crack.  
  
“ _Jaskier_! Damn it, you need to say it for this to work! I _know_ you can do it. How do you _really_ feel about me?”  
  
It was a gamble but Geralt leaned in and kissed Jaskier, wincing as the other man bit through his lip. He stubbornly remained there, even as blood loss had him weakening and loosening his grip on the body beneath him.  
  
Jaskier broke free but the dagger didn’t reach Geralt’s heart, the hand wielding it freezing just there, with the tip of the blade barely breaking skin.  
  
Geralt pulled back and found large, clear blue eyes gazing up at him - Jaskier’s face was covered in dirt and blood but he was _smiling_ , serene and peaceful. Everything else seemed to slow down.  
  
“I _love_ you, Geralt.”  
  
And the Witcher huffed a breathy, relieved laugh despite himself, despite their horrible predicament and the fact that he could taste iron in the back of his throat, was probably dying. “I love you too, Jaskier.”  
  
Behind them the witch was screaming, staggering to her feet and clutching her head, hand outstretched and aimed at Geralt’s back - a blast of energy suddenly blew her away as Yennefer abruptly, unceremoniously, fell through a portal in the ceiling and sent her flying.  
  
Annika struggled to stand but Geralt couldn’t track her movements any longer, found he was fading fast - the vision of Jaskier’s exhilarated, flushed face, that he could have stared at for hours or even _days_ , blurred as the world tilted dangerously. The bard’s dazed smile vanished as soon as he saw the Witcher’s eyes rolling back into his head.  
  
“Geralt - _Geralt_!”


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some chill time after that wild ass previous chapter! I think there would be a mutiny if I ended on another cliffhanger lololol please forgive me
> 
> Also, ~adult content~, lmk in the comments if you’d prefer a standalone that can easily be avoided! 
> 
> ALSO also I had a bunch of ideas for post-curse Jaskier/Geralt shenanigans so I’m gonna make this into a little mini-series. If there’s something specific that you really wanna see, I’d be happy to make it happen ahhhh

“I love you too, Jaskier.”  
  
The dagger clattered noisily to the floor as Jaskier’s left arm fell to his side, the spell broken. He readjusted to the small, cavernous world very, very slowly, blinking and taking in the damp air, the sounds of a scuffle happening somewhere in the distance.  
  
It had been so strange, existing as a passenger in his own body, hearing someone else’s horrible, violent, cruel thoughts. Fighting desperately to resurface - but when he was met with warm, molten gold eyes he felt only blessed control and _safety_ , unable to suppress giddy, punch-drunk relief as he grabbed Geralt and kissed him.  
  
It was clumsy, more like smashing their faces together, but he couldn’t find it in himself to care about being particularly _elegant_ about it because Geralt loved him, loved him _back_ , and there was now a full feeling in his chest replacing the emptiness he’d felt since the curse first took hold.  
  
For a moment Geralt returned the kiss, but Jaskier suddenly became aware of a metallic tang on his lips and all of the giddiness and warmth vanished as he pulled back in time to see Geralt’s eyes flickering back into his head, the heavy body that had been holding him steady, grounding him, now sagging.  
  
“Geralt - _Geralt_ , what’s...”  
  
With his right hand he felt wetness on the Witcher’s back which brought with it a strange pang in his own chest that he couldn’t yet explain away because to be honest, he remembered _very_ little of what had transpired - only fear, pain, and the all-consuming bliss that had come after their proclamation of true love.  
  
He managed to gently ease the body off of his own as his shoulder protested at the sudden weight - making sure to keep Geralt on his stomach because upon getting a better look he realized that yes, fucking hell, the larger man was _profusely_ bleeding from an injury on his back.  
  
When he glanced over to the other side of what turned out to be the _creepiest_ , most dimly-lit cave in the world, he saw Yennefer. Without thinking he called her name, slipping off his doublet and bunching it up in an attempt to stem the flow. He cursed his left arm for not doing anything, for hanging uselessly by his side, because there was so much red and he needed all of the pressure he could get.  
  
“Y-Yen! He’s going to - there’s too much blood, you need to _heal_ him, why are you just...” he trailed off when he looked up and found frighteningly bright green eyes, having drawn the attention of someone else, someone whose presence unnerved him to a skin-crawling degree. Some primal instinct told him this was _her_ , that she’d been inside him. Had caused so much head-splitting pain, trying to destroy his mind. Had insulted his _singing_.  
  
She was clutching a horrible break in her arm, bone visible through ghostly pale skin - but at the shrill sound Jaskier made she seethed and grinned wildly, raising a hand in their direction. He found himself instinctively covering Geralt’s body with his own as he saw magic crackling to life at the tips of her fingers.  
  
Yennefer, who was reeling from a particularly nasty blow and holding her bleeding nose with one hand, raised the other and sent a pulse of energy at the woman, shooting her back into the wall with tremendous speed. Yen’s nonchalance was almost comical, as though she were swatting a fly - the other witch crumpled into an unmoving pile on the damp floor.  
  
Jaskier’s eyes were wide and okay, yes, a teeny bit impressed. “Wow, bloody hell, that was...oh no, did you - is she _dead_? I mean, I’m not sure if...shouldn’t we not stoop to her _level_ , and all that? You know, be the bigger - “  
  
Yen cut him off sharply. “Jaskier. Just focus on keeping pressure while I get these cuffs on her.”  
  
So apparently not dead, then. Jaskier was strangely relieved - he recalled deep-rooted sorrow mixed in with all the rage, could feel it as clearly as if it were his own. Pure despair. Isolation.  
  
He bore down on Geralt’s wound and could have cried at the weak groan that escaped the other man’s lips as his body instinctively tried to flinch away from the pressure and the fresh spurts of pain that came with it.  
  
“It’s okay, Geralt, we’re going to...” blood soaked through the pretty, pale blue material of the doublet and he swallowed hard. He became aware of a peculiar dampness on his cheeks and realized he _was_ crying. Quite a bit, actually. “You know, y-you can’t just say you love me and then try to _die_ right after, Geralt. I mean, who _knows_ what I’ll do, left to my own devices? Probably find another brooding Witcher to follow around and fall in love with, so - so you _can’t_ go - ”  
  
His wavering little rant was interrupted as Yennefer crouched beside them, gently moving Jaskier’s hand, offering him a reassuring smile - it wasn’t very effective, however, with worry and fear creasing her strong, bewitching features.  
  
“I’m afraid I’m a bit tapped out, but I can stop the bleeding, at least. We’ll get him to the castle, to a doctor, as soon as he’s stable.”  
  
As she placed her palms over the wound on Geralt’s back, Jaskier grabbed Geralt’s hand, trying not to think about how cold his fingers felt within his own. Skin knitted together slowly, and as he watched he started to feel a bit woozy. He became aware of an irritating, _tugging_ , itchy feeling and a warm trickle down his arm.  
  
When he glanced at his own shoulder, he noticed for the first time that at least half of his stitches had been ripped open, their frayed edges lining a deep pit of blood and muscle, tiny rivulets bubbling to the surface.  
  
Yen grabbed his arm as he made a startled, vaguely disgusted noise and tilted dangerously to the side. “Stay with me, Jaskier. I’ll need you to keep pressure on this wound in his shoulder. I’m worried I won’t be able to portal us out if I keep going.”  
  
She ripped a sleeve from her dress and pressed it into Geralt’s shoulder before guiding Jaskier’s hand to hold it in place.  
  
“Sh- _shoulder_?” Jaskier hadn’t seen the second injury, and when he remembered that the dagger had been in his own hand when he came to, he suddenly felt very sick.  
  
That feeling evolved into him actually _getting_ sick on the castle’s pristine marble floor as Yennefer portaled them back.

♜ ♖

Jaskier sat in a comfy chair beside Geralt’s bed, carefully watching the rise and fall of his chest. It had been nearly two and a half days, and the man still hadn’t woken up from his healing slumber.  
  
He was shirtless, the blanket pulled up to just above his belly button, giving Jaskier a clear view of the bandages wrapped about his chest and shoulder, stark white against the pleasant warm tones of Geralt’s skin. He could see other scars, too, scattered across the tight, cord-like muscles of the other man’s chest and arms. Scars he had written many, many songs about.  
  
He couldn’t imagine singing a single _verse_ about the new ones that would no doubt form once the Witcher had healed.  
  
Yennefer had reassured the bard that he _would_ eventually wake up, that his body had been through hell and all he needed was time, but it didn’t ease all of the sickening worry and heartache that gnawed at the back of his mind.  
  
It _especially_ didn’t help that little snippets of that gods-awful night were coming back to him, bit by horrible bit. He’d hurt Geralt. Well, it wasn’t _him_ , necessarily, but his hands had wielded the weapon that dealt such devastating damage to the Witcher. That was perhaps the worst thing she - _Annika_ was her name, he later learned - could have left him with.  
  
She’d been unconscious the last time he saw her, powers suppressed by greenish stone cuffs. Before she was whisked away to the castle’s dungeon to be treated and await the Brotherhood’s final decision regarding her punishment - a cell made entirely of that pulsating, malicious-looking stone was one option, according to Yennefer.  
  
Annika had also left him with horrible, residual head pain. He found he had trouble remembering long-term memory things, like what his favorite sweet had been as a child. And then the nightmares. _Buckets_ of those. _Thank you_ , Annika.  
  
He scooted a little closer, propping his chin up on his hand, elbow resting on the bed.  
  
Jaskier studied Geralt’s incredibly still face, the calm that had settled over his rugged features as he dwelled in a dreamless sleep.  
  
It felt a little strange, watching Geralt like this, and Jaskier’s cheeks burned - until he remembered he’d woken to Geralt having an intense staring contest with his sleeping body at _least_ three times in the last week.  
  
“If you don’t wake up soon I am going to start _poking_ you, Geralt. Many times, in the face. And yes, I know how much you absolutely hate that, but I’ll risk you breaking my fingers if that’s what it takes.”  
  
Before he could begin his wickedly annoying assault, a light giggle at the doorway interrupted him and he nearly fell out of his chair. When he saw who it was, however, his shock was replaced with a devilish little smile.  
  
“Dear Ciri, are you _eavesdropping_?”  
  
She rolled her eyes, bouncing over and leaning playfully with her arms crossed on the back of his chair, examining the bard’s face. “You’re blushing.”  
  
Jaskier laughed, but damn it, also blushed _harder_ at being called out. “Oi! _You_ are - gods, just so delightfully cheeky. I simply can’t stand it.” Then he sighed, sticking out his lower lip in a pout. “What will it be today? I don’t think I can handle another hour of trying to lift a glass while _she_ breathes down my neck.”  
  
Ciri was still smiling, teasing, but her eyes grew serious. Sympathetic. “She said you’re not allowed to miss your session today. She said no, um...” she furrowed her brow, trying to recall something. “‘bitch fits?’”  
  
Jaskier gasped, spluttered - turned to Geralt to ask if he could believe this, remembered the whole ‘deep healing sleep’ thing and floundered for a moment. “ _Bitch fits_? Sh-she sent _you_ to tell me - all right, that’s it, let’s go. Bollocks. Will you help me think of a scathing insult on the way?”  
  
The young girl chuckled and accompanied him to Yennefer’s study, where the sorceress was setting up a chessboard. The first time she’d examined his arm, it had already healed too much on its own - too late for magical intervention. But Annika had unknowingly reversed that during her cruel excavation of the open wound with a bloody _dagger_ , which meant Yennefer could try to go back in and fix the frayed nerve endings.  
  
Key word _try_ , because it wasn’t going all that well. Ciri, who was observing it all in an attempt to learn something useful, was instead privy to a whole new vocabulary of fun and inventive curse words thanks to the bard’s frustration.  
  
Jaskier’s face lit up as soon as he saw the game being set up, however. He sat across from the sorceress, greedily reaching for a pawn when she smacked his hand away.  
  
“The _other_ one, Jaskier.”  
  
Ciri learned even more colorful phrases that afternoon. 

♜ ♖

Geralt didn’t wake gracefully, or gradually. Or _calmly_ , for that matter. Having passed out at decidedly the _worst_ time, with a witch about to blast them with dark magic, he shot up in bed with a start, blindly reaching out for his sword and finding only soft blankets.  
  
He hissed at a faint twinge of pain at the sudden movement, hand flying to touch his bandaged shoulder.  
  
It was poor timing on the maid’s part, because as soon as she entered the room to change his sheets - expecting a peacefully sleeping Witcher - he was just managing to stand, clutching the wall for support. Glaring at her.  
  
She gasped and dropped the bundle of fresh sheets, but when she turned to go alert someone, Geralt lurched forward and grabbed her sleeve.  
  
“Where. Is. He?” he ground out through gritted teeth.  
  
Naturally, the young woman - who had no idea who _he_ was - screamed, tore herself from his grip and ran. Geralt suddenly felt only blind rage and panic because Jaskier wasn’t _there_ and in the muddled haze of painkilling potions and waking after too much fucking sleep, he immediately jumped to the worst possible conclusion.  
  
He found he had trouble smelling, or distinguishing different smells, as he staggered down the hall, dragging a blanket that had tangled itself around his leg in his efforts to get up. He was shouting Jaskier’s name at this point, slamming open doors on his way and terrifying pretty much everyone in his path, until he came upon the closed door of Yen’s study.  
  
Jaskier grinned, beads of sweat forming on his forehead - Yennefer’s hand was resting on his shoulder and sending soft, gentle pulses as his shaky left hand managed to place his knight. “Checkma-a-ah! What the _fuck_ \- G-Geralt?”  
  
The door had slammed open to reveal the hulking, heaving form of Geralt, arms clutching either side of the doorway. The bandage around his shoulder had come off, partially revealing the soft pink line of a forming scar.  
  
“Goodness, Geralt. What happened? You should lie _down_ \- there’s a cocktail of sedatives working their way through your system as we speak.” Yennefer stated, taking in his disheveled appearance - shirtless, a blanket wrapped about his ankle, face bright red as he pointed at Jaskier. Looking _very_ angry.  
  
In the corner of the room Ciri, the little shit, barely stifled a laugh.  
  
And the bard squeaked, looking around as though there might be someone else who Geralt was currently directing all that delirious rage at.  
  
“ _You_.”  
  
Jaskier straightened, feeling a slight rush from the healing magic as Yennefer broke contact. “Y-yes. Wait, what? _Me_? Geralt, you’ve been out for _days_ and the first thing you do is come crashing in here like a madman and point that blasted finger at _me_ when you’re the one who almost _died_ and - ”  
  
It took Geralt’s mind a moment to process that yes, Jaskier was alive and not a ghost standing before him and chastising him on his overly-dramatic entry. As soon as it did he closed the space between them, snorting as Jaskier attempted to flee and bumped his knee on the table.  
  
He took the bard’s face in his hands, the calloused pads of his thumbs gliding over the smooth, flushed skin of the other man’s cheeks, the fading bruise on his jaw from when Geralt had wrestled him to the ground during his possession. He smiled.  
  
“You’re okay.” Geralt murmured, breathy and relieved, before kissing him.


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I kind of meant to let them float in a bubble for awhile but I just don’t enjoy creating ““bad”” characters for the sake of plot alone and then sending them away like that, yanno! *shrek voice* onions...layers!!! 
> 
> Speaking of onions, playing through Witcher 3 rn and can literally only afford them as my health item, I lose it every time I see Geralt just shoveling raw _onions_ into his mouth during combat like a gremlin
> 
> Also thank you for all of your lovely responses! I decided to see what came naturally, so warning for some shtuff up ahead, it’s light. My vibe was dragon age romance scene lmfao.

Jaskier gripped Geralt’s arm to ground himself as the other man kissed him, feeling very much like he needed a tether to keep from floating away. It wasn’t a particularly aggressive kiss but tender and chaste as the Witcher’s hands fluttered about his head, his chest, his shoulders, checking for any underlying damage or injury.  
  
After a moment he vaguely recalled that they weren’t alone (Yen’s loud cough and Ciri’s somewhat embarrassed giggle helped - thank you, ladies), and although he found it very, very difficult he managed to tear himself away. Geralt voiced his displeasure with a rough little grumble.  
  
“I’m sorry, but how is it that you were worried about _me_ , Geralt? You almost _died_. In my arms, actually. Ask Ciri - I was a complete wreck, totally inconsolable.”  
  
Ciri nodded, all wide-eyed innocence. “It’s true, he cried. A _lot_. We tried telling him you were going to be fine, but he was still delirious from blood loss and had just gotten sick all over himse - “  
  
“O-ho-okay, _thank you_ , Ciri. For that...lovely visual.”  
  
Geralt snorted, fixing the young girl with an amused, affectionate smirk. “You were supposed to be studying with Vesemir this week, weren’t you?”  
  
She frowned, stubbornly crossing her arms over her chest. Challenging him a bit, in her own precocious way. “It’s not my fault he fell asleep. And I _just_ wanted to make sure you were okay. Besides, tracking you here was easy.”  
  
The Witcher was a little proud at that, but also knew Vesemir was probably shitting himself at the moment, having lost track of his charge. He _did_ have a habit of putting himself to sleep with his own lectures, though.  
  
As if reading his mind, Yennefer pulled a letter from her desk. “I sent word immediately to Kaer Morhen informing them that she’s here, safe in the castle.” She handed it to Geralt, who grunted as he read through a particularly nasty string of words. “His response was...colorful.”  
  
“Hmm.”  
  
Jaskier had been listening to the conversation between the three, appalled at how ridiculously casual it was, and found he could no longer take it.  
  
“I’m sorry - I just - can we go back to the part where a child wandered through the countryside, _alone_ , to get here? And Geralt, _you_ \- you need to go back to bed!”  
  
They all decided to answer pretty much at the same exact time, much to his delight.  
  
“I’m not a child.” Ciri.  
  
“She can protect herself. And I’m fine, Jaskier.” _Geralt_.  
  
“Honestly, Jaskier, do you think I’ve taught her nothing?” _Bloody_ Yennefer.  
  
The bard thought his head might explode but could only manage stuttering, frustrated sounds as he suddenly realized that he was the one who needed a nap. At least to get away from this craziness. He made his way towards the door, tugging Geralt along with him, muttering something about the man being half-naked and delirious and oh yes, injured.  
  
The Witcher allowed this despite the fact that he was almost fully healed by now, feeling clear-headed as the painkillers had already worked their way through his system. He had a nagging feeling that something else was up. Something was bothering Jaskier.  
  
He gently extracted his hand from the bard’s, turning to Ciri. “We’ll discuss this later. Jaskier has a point - what you did was reckless. Acting on emotion is dangerous.”  
  
She sighed and relented after a moment. Behind all of her obstinance, there still existed a young, nervous teenager. “I-I’m sorry. I know. Just...make sure he’s okay, too.” Jaskier had made it down the hall and when he was out of earshot, she added, “He’s been having nightmares. Headaches.”

♜ ♖

When they got back to the room, Jaskier had gone quiet. Thoughtful. He was perched on the edge of the bed, fiddling with the tassels of one of its blankets.  
  
Geralt approached carefully, sitting beside him - noticing the way the bard self-consciously clutched his left arm as he did.  
  
“What’s going on, Jaskier?”  
  
A moment of silence as the younger man worked through his thoughts - he enjoyed doing that, now that he wasn’t constantly forced to say them against his will.  
  
“I nearly killed you, Geralt.” he said eventually, voice low and serious. “Only it wasn’t _me_ , but at the same time it kind of _was_ , and I...I remember how good she felt doing it. I can’t get it out of my bloody head. Yen said we were just lucky, using the one truth the spell couldn’t force me to say to...y’know. Break it. What if we hadn’t been lucky? You’d be...”  
  
Geralt frowned. The sorceress enjoyed being brutally honest, even at the worst times. “Fuck that. _Annika_ nearly killed me. Not you.” He paused, trying to soften his tone a bit. “And it wasn’t just luck, Jaskier. You were stronger, in the end - _you_ broke through, saved us.”  
  
The bard considered this, worrying at his lower lip, before dramatically flinging himself back on the bed. “I simply cannot accept all the credit - _you’re_ the one who practically screamed at me to tell you how I felt, after all.”  
  
“You remember that?”  
  
A soft sigh. “Of _course_ I do, Geralt. I don’t think I’ve ever had someone fracture my wrist _and_ demand a confession all in the same breath. That’s a fairly unusual way to start a relationship, isn’t it? You - oh, yikes. Bollocks.“ he quickly cut himself off, realizing what he had just said and blushing furiously. Which was _stupid_ , because of the whole ‘true love, destined to be together’ bit that had pretty much saved both of their lives, but there he was. Childishly embarrassed by the word ‘relationship.’  
  
Geralt didn’t understand his embarrassment but found it endearing all the same - to make him more comfortable he offered a small, mischievous smile. “I think we sailed right past ‘unusual’ when you started singing songs about my...what was it? Impressive what?”  
  
Jaskier gasped, giving him a light kick, but then laughed as he remembered that horrid verse from their ride into the swamp. “It was _member_ , wasn’t it?”  
  
He was still a vivid, probably _unhealthy_ shade of fuchsia as Geralt snickered, the sound a light rumble in his chest, and moved until he was further up on the bed, one arm planted right beside Jaskier’s shoulder, face hovering above his.  
  
The bard blinked up at him, suddenly forgetting how to breathe because the man was _still_ shirtless and in very, very dangerously close proximity. He had to remind himself that they were safe now, that the curse was _gone_. His left hand was as harmless as the pillows beneath his head.  
  
And with the curse broken, he realized he had the freedom to truly be with Geralt. Wasn’t constantly questioning his own thoughts and feelings. Could say things like...  
  
“Y-you know, I think this is the first time you’ve found yourself...ah, _on top_ of me in a situation where we aren’t fearing for our lives. Or about to die, horribly.”  
  
Geralt smirked and drew closer. “Better take advantage while we can, then.” Before he kissed him, his face became serious. “I want to be with you, Jaskier. _Only_ you. Is that all right?”  
  
“Gods, yes. Do you really have to ask?” Jaskier squeaked, before grabbing the other man’s collar and pulling him down into the bed. 

♜ ♖

He’d been with other men before, but they had only been short-term trysts, nothing _serious_ \- being with Geralt was just...so, so very different. Unimaginably pleasant. But also primal, and _exhausting_ , because the man had far too much stamina for someone who had only just recovered from a life-threatening injury. And at some point, around dinner time, he had signed the bloody _door_ to keep out any interruptions.  
  
They’d ended up tangled in a blanket by the fireplace, and Jaskier - who had _absolutely_ reached his limit, was panting and sweaty and void of even an ounce of energy - whined and batted the Witcher’s wandering hands away.  
  
He was rewarded with a soft, breathy sound from above. Which was another new development - he found that making Geralt laugh was a feeling he wanted to chase, to the ends of the earth if need be. It was like a small earthquake and he loved every second of it.  
  
“Ger _alt_ , I am _spent_. Your sexual appetite will be the end of me. ‘What happened to Jaskier?’ they’ll say. ‘Oh, didn’t you hear? Shagged to death, by a ravenous Witcher - until there was nothing left.’” With a dramatic sigh he flopped over, although just the sight of Geralt’s broad chest, glistening with sweat, made him think twice. “Poof, just like that. All of my hard work restoring your reputation - _gone_.”  
  
Geralt shifted until he was on his back, giving Jaskier space to settle into the crook of his shoulder and using his arm to draw him in closer. When he chuckled it tickled the bard’s cheek, reminding him of another time he’d found himself wrapped in a Geralt-cocoon - although that had been under _far_ less excellent circumstances.  
  
“I seem to remember you instigating the last two times, Jaskier.” Geralt rumbled sleepily, fingers settling with gentle, soothing explorations of the narrow curve of Jaskier’s hip. “Your appetite is far more insatiable.”  
  
The bard was about to very enthusiastically refute that when he was interrupted by his own stomach, growling fiercely and deflating the small cloud of pleasure and happiness he’d been floating on.  
  
Geralt quirked a brow, gazing down at him with almost _painful_ adoration - the kind that made his stomach hurt because it was just far, far too pure. “Among others, apparently. It’s late, I’ll go to the pantry. What do you want?”  
  
Jaskier had to pause and think very hard about this, because he could hardly think straight after...had never really _experienced_ a day...or night?...quite as rigorous. Which was saying a lot, considering previous encounters.  
  
Eventually he conjured a response from his very dehydrated, very lust-addled brain. “Buh...a _hem_...brie? Apples, maybe?”  
  
The Witcher’s amused sigh blew his hair from where sweat had glued it to his forehead, before the man stood and got dressed - slowly, mind you, so as not to deprive his bard of a glorious view.  
  
Before he left, he turned to Jaskier, who was ridiculously content to remain on the floor and couldn’t seem to keep that cheeky smile off his face.  
  
“I’ll be right back. Stay.” Geralt observed the way the blanket fell perfectly at Jaskier’s midriff, soft skin illuminated by the firelight. “Just like that.”  
  
When he left, Jaskier rolled onto his stomach. Despite the small bubble they’d managed to form within the confines of their exquisitely decorated room, he glared at his own left hand, an odd emotion mixing with hunger and fatigue in the pit of his stomach.  
  
That _limb_ continued to exist as a stubborn testament to the struggles he’d faced, and for some reason he couldn’t shake the feeling that it wasn’t _right_.  
  
Something wasn’t right, and it was ruining what should have been post-coital, no-interruptions-please _perfection_. With Geralt gone, he suddenly felt...sad. Scared. _Angry_. And he couldn’t explain it away.  
  
Before he could dwell on what it meant, or what kind of residual connection remained after the curse had been broken, he heard hurried footsteps down the hall, and the door flew open. It had only been about five or ten minutes since Geralt had left, and Jaskier was suddenly a flurry of curses and blankets, thinking that maybe they were under attack. _Again_.  
  
He looked up and saw Geralt, the blouse he’d thrown on and left mostly unbuttoned now hanging off his shoulder, face oddly angry. A bit peaky, too.  
  
From where he’d been trying to clumsily make pants out of a too-thick fur blanket, Jaskier paused and reached out to the other man, feeling a strange and familiar pang of emptiness as the Witcher recoiled.  
  
“A lord came by tonight.” Geralt said abruptly, pacing around the room with a wheel of cheese in his arm that Jaskier didn’t think he realized was still there. “Claimed Annika as his prisoner. For cursing his house. He fucking took her, Jaskier. Yen couldn’t stop it.”


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Not much plot-wise here, just kind of setting things up! I want to explore Jaskier’s connection with the witch, maybe try to make this into a little redemption...questline. With a fun haunted keep. Maybe some ghosts.
> 
> Besides, I thought they deserved to rest and share a bath in relative peace!
> 
> Thank you soooososososo much for tuning in and leaving the most WONDERFUL!!!!! comments even though I allowed a simple truth spell fic to turn into a ridiculous, violence-filled romp around the continent.

“My love.”  
  
“ _No_.”  
  
“Not ‘my love,’ _either_? What, then, am I supposed to call you? I need pet names, Geralt. I live for them. And you already denied me blossom, which I think _perfectly_ describes your sunny disposition.”  
  
Jaskier had gotten dressed in a simple tunic tucked into soft, high-waisted pants, and was now sitting backwards on a wooden chair with his chin resting on his arm - watching as Geralt continued his pacing, had continued it right out the door and into the great hall to wait for Yen. “Chum? Pal?” An unhappy grunt in response. “Grumpy old _codger_? No, you’re right. Too verbose. ‘He who plugs my hole’ seems a bit on the nose - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
The bard let out a frustrated sigh, which evolved into a yawn. It didn’t help that he now had a dull headache. A side effect of being ripped from their blissful little nest of blankets and pillows, no doubt. And yes, he was still exhausted and in need of several baths.  
  
“You do realize you’ve managed to reach Emmi levels of ambiguity. Grunting and occasionally saying my name for the last fifteen minu - Ger _alt_.” He flung his arm out in a lame, sleepy attempt to stop that infernal pacing, missing Geralt by about a foot. “You _minx_. Just tell me why it matters that some arse decided his dungeon was better suited than this one? Are you forgetting the part where she tortured and nearly killed _both_ of us?”  
  
Geralt paused in front of Jaskier, face softening minutely as he studied the younger man’s bedhead and peevish expression. “Never.” He allowed himself one blessed moment to soak in the bard’s adorably rumpled appearance, the way his tunic was buttoned unevenly. The faint red marks trailing up his neck. “But it’s not just some lord - fuck, I forgot you were unconscious.”  
  
“Oh, good. A fairly common occurrence, apparently. But when? What did I miss?”  
  
“That night. When I thought you were...um. She _said_ you were...” Jaskier’s innocent, curious expression made it way too difficult to finish that awful sentence. He decided the when didn’t matter quite as much as the why. “Anyway, the witch told me what happened to her sister. It was worse than I thought. Much fucking worse.”  
  
As Jaskier listened to the horrible story, his insolent, crabby demeanor wilted - he shivered, drawing into himself as he thought back to the overwhelming, aching despair he’d felt, sometimes still felt like a phantom creeping up on him in the night. ”Fuck. That’s _terrible_. But isn’t this man...you know, _ancient_? Probably pushing his seventies by now - Annika would no doubt eat him alive if he tried anything. Gods know she’s capable of far worse.”  
  
“It’s his son. Vengeful twat.”  
  
“Well. Bollocks.” Jaskier extracted himself from the chair and stretched, wincing as his sore body protested at the movement. “I’m assuming the plan is to go fetch the feral witch? But I’m warning you now, I really might keel over if I have to mount a horse after...” he trailed off with a blush, and then nearly jumped out of his skin as Yennefer suddenly appeared behind him, clearing her throat. “After all that... _training_. Yes. So much...sword wielding?” _Nice bloody save, Jaskier_ , he thought. As if anyone would believe he’d allow Geralt to drag him to an impromptu training session, ever.  
  
The sorceress scoffed, violet eyes regarding him fondly. “Oh, is _that_ what you’re calling it? Unfortunately, Geralt’s barrier failed to make your room soundproof, and when I came to invite you lot to dinner I heard - ”  
  
“Come off it, Yen.” Geralt growled. He could take Yen’s teasing, but Jaskier’s pleasant pink blush was quickly evolving into a bloodless white. “What took so long?”  
  
“I was _trying_ to talk some sense into the grand duke, but he and Lord Jannick are good friends. These blasted noble pricks - birds of a shit feather.”  
  
Jaskier considered this. “So we’re all just collectively off our rockers, then. Wonderful. Why on earth do _you_ want to help her?”  
  
A strange look crossed Yennefer’s face. “We don’t make deals with demons for a reason. It took her mind, slowly, until she was rotten inside. But I feel for her. Powerful men took her sister - her _family_ \- away. She deserves punishment for what she did, but...”  
  
Geralt grunted. “Not like this.”  
  
“And the Brotherhood will happily look the other way - collect whatever’s left of her to throw in a cell and call it justice. They only look after their own when it suits them, and since she’s never had proper schooling...well, she’s nothing more than a mad dog, in their eyes.” Yennefer sighed, pulling up a chair beside Jaskier - this earned her an impatient glare from Geralt.  
  
“Let’s go. Or is your plan to sit and chat about it some more?”  
  
The bard looked between them for a moment before gasping as realization dawned on him. “I swear to the gods, Geralt, if you say - “  
  
“You’re staying here.”  
  
“You _menace_ , I knew you were going to - I am _not_ staying behind while you go directly to the woman who tried to murder you, it’s simply not - “  
  
“No.” Geralt had finally stopped pacing, now facing Jaskier with his arms crossed over his chest.  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
There was a moment of silent communication between the two that Yennefer watched with a rather entertained expression - Jaskier maintained a stubborn glare until the older man eventually groaned and relented.  
  
The bard wanted desperately to poke fun at the fact that Geralt of Rivia was absolutely, without a shadow of a doubt, wrapped about his little finger. But no, now was not the time. Now was the time for stupidity and trying to rescue someone who most likely still wanted to kill them, apparently.  
  
“Damn it.” Geralt turned to the sorceress, who still had not moved. He knew they’d have to portal in, which was something he had spent his life actively avoiding. Volatile magic. One slight miscalculation would have you plummeting to your death, or worse. “If you rip us in half, I swear to the fucking gods - _Yen_. Why aren’t you moving?”  
  
She took her sweet ass time yawning and stretching before eyeing the irritated man before her. “Oh, done with your little lovers’ quarrel? This situation requires delicacy. I know you care about this as little as I, but popping in there and stealing a _prisoner_ who cursed an entire house would incite the wrath of every bloody noble in the territory.”  
  
Jaskier felt his headache evolve into a sharp, searing pain in his temples and he sucked in a breath, trying to pass it off as an annoyed huff. “Just tell us the plan, pretty please.”  
  
“Tomorrow you’ll request an audience with Lord Arseface. I have it on good authority that they haven’t been able to break the curse, which means they won’t be killing her outright. You have some time to be smart about this, and lifting the curse might put him in a merciful mood.” She toyed with the lace detail on her blouse, having the audacity to look _bored_. “If not - well, Geralt has the means to change his mind. One way or another.”  
  
The Witcher frowned, although she did have a point - storming into a lord’s heavily-fortified keep was rash, something he’d been chastising Ciri about just that morning. He couldn’t afford to be reckless.  
  
After a few more words and fleshing out their plan, the pair went back to their room, with Jaskier testing out new verses and cursing them the whole way. “What happened to our simple adventures, Geralt? You’d come back covered in guts and that would be the end of it. Easy peasy. If I composed a ballad about any of this it would be so horribly _confusing_.”  
  
“You’ll worm your way around the truth. As you do.” Geralt teased, sitting at the edge of the bed to take off his boots.  
  
“Are you calling me a liar, Geralt? I bend the truth, at _most_. That’s all I’ll give you - wait, what are you doing?”  
  
Geralt had gone into the bathroom and was currently clattering around, making far too much noise. He thought he heard a steel bucket crash on the floor. After a moment the Witcher poked his head out.  
  
“Stay.”  
  
Jaskier did, but only until he grew restless. When he crept up to the bathroom door and peeked in he saw Geralt crouching by the clawfoot tub, heating the water with his hands. There were candles everywhere, on every possible surface and surrounding the bath, filling the small space with a warm, pleasant glow.  
  
“Geralt, _what_ \- oh, hello.“  
  
The Witcher straightened - he’d changed and now he was wearing nothing but a towel, much to Jaskier’s delight. He approached the bard and started unbuttoning his tunic slowly, watching with plaintive amusement as Jaskier tried to wrap his head around this mind-blowing scene.  
  
Geralt planted a kiss on a particularly deep red splotch at the nape of Jaskier’s neck. “Do you want to take a bath with me, Jaskier?”  
  
Despite the fact that it was past midnight and they’d be setting off on another bloody journey tomorrow, Jaskier nodded eagerly, huffing impatiently and unbuttoning his shirt faster when Geralt took too long.  
  
“Y-Yes? Obviou - oh, is that lavender _soap_?”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes as the bard shed his clothes impressively fast, slipping into the perfectly warm water, unable to contain happy, breathy little moans as it went to work on his aching bones.  
  
After a moment he cracked open one eye and saw Geralt watching him. With an impish grin he grabbed the man’s towel and tugged. 

♜ ♖

The moon was high in the sky, illuminating them through the bathroom’s single window by the time they’d settled into each other in the bath. Jaskier was relaxing with his back against the broad expanse of Geralt’s chest, humming happily whenever the Witcher placed his hand on the outside of the porcelain tub and sent small bursts of heat into the water.  
  
“So, what brought this on?” Jaskier murmured after a moment, absentmindedly walking his fingers up Geralt’s arm and examining every scar, every groove. He felt very much like he could fall asleep like this, not caring if he drowned because Geralt’s warm body was flush against his, surrounding him like a blanket, and he’d probably never feel this content and peaceful ever, ever again.  
  
Geralt made a low sound in his ear, a cross between a sigh and a grunt. His voice rasped when he spoke. “You like baths.” He cleared his throat, suddenly sounding a bit...awkward. “I wanted, uh, time that was ours. Before tomorrow.”  
  
“And you say _I’m_ the romantic? Honestly, you’re - ow.” Jaskier looked down at his left arm as he felt a twinge of pain near his elbow. “ _Ow_.” He repeated the word more urgently this time as the pain shot up to his shoulder suddenly, radiating in his bones, although nothing was _touching_ him. And Geralt was almost irritatingly mindful of his injury when they - “ _Fuck_!”  
  
Jaskier shot up in the bath, clutching his elbow. Water sloshed over the side, extinguishing the few candles that remained after the others had melted into viscous puddles of wax.  
  
The Witcher straightened immediately, golden eyes alert as they scanned Jaskier. He had a hand on the bard’s calf, steadying him. “What’s wrong with your arm? Did I - “  
  
Jaskier shook his head vigorously, squeezing tighter as the pain reached a nearly unbearable degree before subsiding as suddenly as it had started. He panted, sinking back into the water, now facing Geralt on the opposite side of the bath. “I don’t bloody know, it’s - it’s gone, I’m f- _fine_. Gods, it felt like... _like_...”  
  
Images flashed in his mind from a couple nights ago. He’d seen bone, protruding through pale skin - she’d been treated for her injuries when they brought her back to the castle, but not magically...it would still be...  
  
“Oh, _fuck_.”  
  
“What happened?”  
  
Jaskier licked his lips, releasing his arm when it didn’t start up again. “Well, okay. Now don’t get _mad_ , but I had a hunch earlier this evening - it was very hard to think straight, Geralt, when you were doing that thing with your - “  
  
“The point, Jaskier.” Geralt said gruffly, accustomed to Jaskier’s endearing habit of going off on random, unrelated tangents. “Get to the point.”  
  
“Ah. Yes, okay. You know I’ve been having headaches. Um, they’re also accompanied by...well, occasionalfitsofuncontrollable _rage_ , and...” he looked sheepishly up at Geralt, who was now glaring at him - and he did look quite angry, which Jaskier had specifically said wasn’t allowed. “And Annika, she broke her left _arm_ during her fight with Yennefer...I thought mine was just healing and it was _normal_ , for it to ache like that, but...”  
  
Realization dawned on the larger man and he slid closer to Jaskier, brow furrowed as he stared into his eyes. “Why didn’t you say anything, Jaskier?”  
  
An exasperated sigh, but Jaskier found he had to divert his gaze because bedroom romps aside, there had been plenty of opportunities for him to fill Geralt in on how he’d been feeling.  
  
“I’m not really an expert on this sort of thing, am I, Geralt?”  
  
After a moment, Geralt nodded, and stepped out of the bath. He held a towel out for Jaskier before drying himself off.  
  
The moon was no longer visible now, the sky lightening to the first cool blues of early, early morning. Geralt was watching Jaskier carefully as he sat on the bed, staring thoughtfully at his arm.  
  
“So you think you two are...” The edge had gone from Geralt’s voice.  
  
A small, affirmative head jerk. “Still connected, yes. Somehow. Not all the time, though. They’re like...short bursts.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Jaskier’s blue eyes were soft and somber. “But I can feel it, Geralt. I know they’re hurting her. That she’s _scared_. I didn’t want to care, not after everything she’s done, but...”  
  
The Witcher let out another, more pensive “hm” and eased the bard back into the pillows, positioning them so that the smaller man was against his chest, a protective, reassuring arm keeping him close. “We’ll find a way to fix it.”  
  
“Okay...” Jaskier peered up at him hopefully. “Darling?”  
  
“No.”


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Act two begins! Har har har
> 
> I’m going to keep the pet name thing as a running joke, I loved that y’all had some suggestions! The sillier the better!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They travel to a creepy old keep! Having a bard in your party gives you +10 persuasion. And there’s...a lot of spitting? More spitting than usual, at least. Jaskier gets some answers.

It was cold and dark. Around him, cruel laughter.  
  
Jaskier looked up through eyes that some part of him knew weren’t his own. He saw the outlines of several men, and as he adjusted to the lighting he could see their faces, contorted by wicked grins and gleaming, hungry eyes.  
  
“Not so fucking wily now, are ye, bitch?”  
  
A man with half an ear grinned, and he felt a sick satisfaction in seeing the lopsided way the injury was healing. He’d always have half an ear, and it had felt good to rip the flesh from his -  
  
Someone spat on him and he thought of Geralt, but when he did it was an angry thought, an unpleasant _memory_ of the man spitting in his face and leering at him. He couldn’t remember Geralt ever spitting on him. Maybe accidentally, during the yelling bits when the man was vexed beyond belief, but that was something he’d normally laugh about because Geralt rarely yelled at him and when he did it was either incredibly hurtful or downright ridiculous, with no in between -  
  
Fresh, new pain in his arm as a booted foot stepped on it, grinding down on already-broken bone, followed by more raucous bellows, more hands that grabbed and _hurt_ until he was nothing but a ball on the floor, curling in on himself to lessen the pain as his attackers kicked and grabbed and punched.  
  
Jaskier tried to speak, to scream, but found he had no control over his mouth, his movements, couldn’t lift a bloody finger - similar to the time he’d accompanied Geralt on his journey to destroy an incubus, only this wasn’t nearly as fun.  
  
Okay, it hadn’t been _fun_ , necessarily, but at least when the thing had crept into his room and tried to kill him, it had the decency of giving him a good dream _first_.  
  
Something made him look down at his arm and he saw white and red, red with more white in the middle. Repetitive. Familiar. His insides, something he’d only ever seen when that bandit had tried to cut him in half. Bones and cartilage, hand limp and restrained by blasted greenish cuffs.  
  
Someone pulled him up, threw him into a wall and he heard a hiss of pain escape his own lips. A body pressed against him, using its weight to keep him still and upright as more blows came, until a particularly brutal one to the jaw had him tumbling to the ground again.  
  
When he thought he couldn’t take it anymore, was suffocated by a strange mix of helplessness and rage, he suddenly felt a gust of wind in his ear like hot breath, and the sound of an all-too familiar, wonderfully affectionate _chuckle_ that had him breaking the surface, back to reality.

♜ ♖

Jaskier awoke with a shuddering gasp, immediately looking down at his arm and finding the soft expanse of flesh peeking out from where it had wound itself under a pillow. Bones intact. Phew.  
  
He glanced up to find Geralt’s face, looking down at him with an amused smirk. Jaskier could have kissed him, if he weren’t so rattled, for being the one to wake him from that terror.  
  
“You were having a nice dream.”  
  
Jaskier groaned, his movements stiff and jolting as he reacquainted himself with his own body. “ _Nice_? There was nothing nice - that was a nightmare, Geralt. Bloody realistic and - “  
  
He froze as he followed the Witcher’s gaze to see that he’d wormed his way out of the blankets, and yes, it did indeed look like he’d been having a _very_ nice dream.  
  
“A nightmare?” The Witcher frowned, searching their room for anything that might be lurking within shadows that hadn’t yet been chased away by the morning sun. He remembered an encounter they’d had years ago where Jaskier woke in a similar state. Scared and... “Another incubus?”  
  
Jaskier huffed a small laugh, shaking his head and trying to rally himself into speaking actual words, not just post-nightmare gibberish. He was only partially successful.  
  
“I think I was...Annika. They were beating her. Me. Wait, if I’m...” Jaskier squeaked and pulled the covers up to his chin, eyes darting wildly around the room. “Was _she_...you don’t think...do you? Geralt? Do you think _she_...?”  
  
“If _you_ think I understood any of that, Jaskier, you’re sorely mistaken.”  
  
The bard took a deep breath, letting it out slowly through his nose, managing to find the words. “Do you think it works _both_ ways? As in...she can also see _my_...”  
  
And Geralt, the shitter, was way too amused by that theory. He snorted and stood, bones popping into place as he stretched, before slipping on a shirt and getting his armor ready. “Of all things, that’s what you’re concerned about?” He paused, watching Jaskier struggle to tuck a tunic into teal trousers. His left arm had some mobility now, could hold things for a short time and had occasional spurts of strength, but mundane tasks were still a pain. Especially in the morning. “Are you sure you want to come? I can do this alone.”  
  
“Are _you_ sure you aren’t just trying to get rid of me? Because I won’t have it. I simply can’t stand to be away from you for more than a second, Geralt.”  
  
Geralt looked a bit taken aback, examining the bard’s face to see if he was joking but finding only open honesty. Maybe a little snark. He allowed himself a small smile. “Neither can I.” 

♜ ♖

Yennefer gave them some supplies because they were still very, very dreadfully coin-less and there was no money in solving an endless string of your own problems, apparently.  
  
They were preparing Roach for the journey when Ciri snuck Jaskier a small pot of rose petal jam for the bread, giggling as he nearly cried at the sight of it and swept her up in a big hug, spinning her about.  
  
“You, my dear, are an absolute _treasure_.” Jaskier said, setting her down and smiling at her flushed little face, peeking out from under the hood of a forest green cloak. He silently thanked his arm for allowing him to make her smile.  
  
“I want to come with you. Geralt said you’re going to break a curse, I could learn from - “  
  
The man in question came up behind her, giving her a fond look as he secured their packs on Roach’s saddle. “Next time, Ciri. You’re going back to Kaer Morhen to apologize to Vesemir. And continue your studies.”  
  
She crinkled her nose, unhappy with that response - and the prospect of having to face the grumpy old man after escaping right out from under his nose.  
  
It took a bit more convincing to get her to grudgingly accept that she wouldn’t be tagging along, but once she had boarded Yennefer’s carriage the two men took off. It was little more than half a day’s journey to the keep and a fairly easy ride, but better to get there before nightfall as the area was notoriously plagued by packs of nasty monsters.  
  
As they rode, Jaskier strummed experimentally at his lute from where he was seated behind Geralt. It was still in pretty bad shape, but between Emmi’s attempts to salvage it and his own clever tinkering, it was playable, at least. Awkward without full use of both of his arms but he was right-handed, blessedly, and his nimble fingers ended up producing a simple, but pleasant, tune.  
  
With Geralt seeming very content to sit in silence as they plodded along the countryside, Jaskier grew bored and started singing off the top of his head:  
  
“ _Will the Witcher and his bard  
  
Reach the end of their quest  
  
Or will more blasted complications  
  
Keep them from lifting this he-e-x_ \- bollocks, wrong chord.”  
  
Geralt shook his head with a dry laugh and a withering look back at the bard, who nearly lost his balance as he fiddled with the strings of his instrument.  
  
“What kind of curse are we dealing with, exactly, Geralt? Is Annika a repeat offender? We _did_ almost die, but if you think about it she’s like an...evil matchmaker. Of sorts.”  
  
Geralt groaned. Jaskier liked to talk, sure, but something about being on the road seemed to compel him to ask questions. So many fucking questions. And if Geralt didn’t answer immediately, the bard’s queries would double, sometimes triple in number.  
  
“I don’t know. Lord Jannick believes it killed his father and uncle.”  
  
“Oh. Well that’s not good, is it? What is this place called again?” Silence. “Where are we _going_ , Geralt?”  
  
Eventually another, more exasperated groan. “Valenves Keep.”  
  
Things continued like this for awhile, Geralt gripping the reins with a white-knuckled grip, at some point inexplicably turning around and silencing the bard with a kiss. By early evening, they passed through a small, run-down town, and in the distance, seated atop a large hill, they could see a massive, ancient stone structure with several large spires, its walls weathered but in good condition, faded-gray in color.  
  
As they came upon the gates, a few guards stopped them, blocking the entrance with their spears. “No visitors allowed. Get lost.”  
  
Geralt glared down at the man who spoke. “I’m here to see your lord.” The spears didn’t budge, and the Witcher rolled his eyes. “About the curse.”  
  
“ _No_ visitors.”  
  
Jaskier peeked over the mountain of a man seated in front of him and piped up, “Oi, don’t you know who you’re talking to? This is the renowned _White Wolf_ \- he singlehandedly broke the curse that plagued Temeria. Lord uh...ah, _Whatshisface_ won’t be pleased if you turn his last hope away. That’s just common sense.”  
  
At that, they started murmuring amongst themselves. “I thought that was Ostrit.” Geralt heard one whisper.  
  
“Lord Jannick will have our _heads_ if he’s telling the truth, though.”  
  
After a moment of deliberation the spears lifted, allowing them to proceed to the keep. Once they arrived at the door, Geralt hopped off Roach, helping Jaskier down and giving him a look. “That was unnecessary.”  
  
“ _Psh_. Look at that little smile - you _loved_ it, you big baby. Ooh! How about baby?”  
  
The look turned sour. “Fuck no.”  
  
“Worth a try - oh - _hey_ , hands off!” Jaskier yelped as one of the guards started patting him down, shaking his lute as he searched for weapons. When he was satisfied Jaskier snatched the instrument back, clutching it to his chest. “Can’t you see she’s _injured_?”  
  
The guard snorted and moved to Geralt, who let out a low, threatening growl that made him back down, hands in the air.  
  
“Fine. Bloody animal. Come with me - if you even think about going for one of those swords, I’ll cut you down.”  
  
Jaskier hurried after Geralt and the guard, muttering a sardonic “yeah, we’ll _see_ about that” as they entered the keep.  
  
The inside was just as intimidating as its exterior, with mile-high ceilings and cold stone walls - the decor was lacking, Jaskier decided as he took in the worn tapestries.  
  
They were brought to a drawing room, where a tall man dressed in furs was standing at a large oak table, poring over a scroll of some sort. When they entered he looked up.  
  
Handsome, but the years clearly hadn’t been kind to him. Not much older than Jaskier, but already his beard had flecks of gray and white, worry lines prominent around cold, steely eyes.  
  
“To what do I owe the honor of having Geralt of Rivia and his...” he squinted at Jaskier, who waved over Geralt’s shoulder, “fancy little man, storming into my keep?”  
  
“Why does everyone keeping _saying_ that? I’m not - I’m an _average_ -sized - “  
  
Geralt cut him off quickly. “Lord Jannick, I take it? I’m here to offer my services.”  
  
“And what services are those, Witcher? There are no monsters here.”  
  
Jaskier snorted, but kept any and all scathing comments to himself.  
  
“Your house is cursed, is it not? I’ll get rid of it. For a price.”  
  
Lord Jannick barked a laugh, but it was humorless and rough. “So sure of yourself. You can try, but I doubt you’ll have much luck. We’ve brought in mages, druids, bloody apostates we found on the side of the road. None of them have been able to do a damned thing about it.”  
  
Geralt bared his teeth in a forced smile. “I have...experience with her brand of magic.”  
  
That made the lord pause, suddenly looking very suspicious. “‘Her?’ What the fuck do _you_ know about that wretched bitch?”  
  
“Enough.”  
  
Jannick narrowed his eyes. “And what was your price, again?”  
  
“ _Her_.”  
  
There was a long, tense moment where both men glared at each other, Jaskier glancing back and forth between them, unsure of what to make of their aggressive staring contest. Eventually Jannick sighed and put a hand to his forehead, breaking eye contact. It felt a little bit like Geralt had won, although Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what that _meant_.  
  
“If you can lift this curse, I’ll consider it. I don’t know what you want with that creature, but if you fail she’ll be burned at the stake. You have two days.”  
  
“Fine.” Geralt nodded, surreptitiously putting a hand on Jaskier’s arm to quiet his protests. “We’ll be back at first light.”  
  
“Nonsense. You’ll stay here while you’re under my employ. Plenty of rooms to spare.”  
  
The Witcher’s tone was dangerously low. “I’m not under your employ. And no.”  
  
Jannick had taken a seat by the fireplace, pouring himself a glass of wine and taking a long, slow sip. “I insist you stay. A night, at least.” He cast an uneasy glance out the door into the hallway, but when Jaskier followed his gaze he saw nothing. “You’ll get a better sense of what you’re dealing with.”  
  
“ _Fine_.” Geralt repeated through a clenched jaw, shoulders set in a tense square. “In exchange, you’ll stop hurting her while I’m here.”  
  
Jannick’s smile was oily, unpleasant. “And why would I do that, Witcher? She’s a bloody menace. Ripped an ear off one of my men with her bare teeth. And she killed my father with that fucking _devil_ magic.”  
  
Geralt took Jaskier’s left hand, then, and pushed up his sleeve to reveal a faint patchwork of bruises. The bard looked down and made a shrill noise, because he hadn’t noticed them at all, they hadn’t _been_ there that morning, but somehow Geralt had known. Had seen them, and said nothing. It didn’t hurt, as rough fingers brushed over bruised skin, but the whole thing made him feel uneasy.  
  
“Touch her again and I’ll do nothing as your whole fucking house dies out.”  
  
This piqued the lord’s interest. “Ah. This is startingr to make sense. She got to you, too, didn’t she? Very well. My man will take you to your rooms...” another look at Jaskier, whose arm was still being held out towards him by Geralt’s hand. “ _room_.”  
  
As he waved a hand at the guard standing by the door, Jaskier suddenly stepped forward, self-consciously pulling his sleeve back down. “Can I see her?” Geralt went to stop him but he shook the other man off stubbornly. ”Can I see the witch?”  
  
“Go right ahead. Harlow, bring him to the dungeon.” As Geralt went to follow them, Jannick clicked his tongue. “Do you think I was born yesterday? The bard can go. Witcher, you stay right here. I’ll fill you in on what’s been going on.”  
  
And Geralt did not like that _one bit_ , but after a heated, hushed debate Jaskier managed to convince him to let him go.  
  
Jaskier squeezed Geralt’s hand, giving him a look that he hoped told him this was something he _had_ to do, before following Jannick’s man out of the room.

__

__

♜ ♖

Jaskier had been given a torch and as he walked through the dank halls of the dungeon, he heard moans and cries coming from almost every one of the cells. By the time the guard stopped in front of one Jaskier was shivering, having avoided several ghostly hands that reached out to touch him, broken voices pleading for mercy.  
  
“Ugh. _You_. Come to gloat?”  
  
She was in a far corner of the windowless space, and Jaskier found he had to put his face dangerously close to get a good look at her.  
  
Limp, stringy blonde curls hung listlessly in her face, their flaxen color barely distinguishable through dirt and grime. Her arm hung at her side at a horribly uncomfortable angle, made worse by the shackles that restricted her movement.  
  
Jaskier crouched in front of the cell, torch illuminating the woman as she shifted and started moving towards him, like liquid through a bottle, fluid and cat-like until she was on her knees in front of the bars. The fire fell upon green eyes as she shook her hair from her face, and he was shocked to find that they were still as bright and rich in color as they had been that night.  
  
He had expected to be scared, possibly shitting himself at seeing her again - and okay, crawling towards him on her hands and knees like some sort of human-animal hybrid was certainly unnerving, decidedly the _worst_ way to approach someone, but he hadn’t expected to feel nearly as much sympathy as he did upon seeing the state of her.  
  
The bard swallowed, finding his mouth had suddenly gone dry. “Why do I keep seeing you in my dreams?”  
  
“Is that where I keep going? _Your_ head? Tell me, bard, do you always dream of sunshine and rainbows?” Annika spat on the floor, and Jaskier thought he saw a tooth floating in the small puddle of pink-tinged saliva. Lovely. “Ah. Or is this the result of more...recent developments?”  
  
Jaskier hoped she couldn’t see the way his cheeks burned at that. But she’d already given him an answer of sorts. It _did_ work both ways. “We broke your curse. Why do I still...feel what you feel?”  
  
She shrugged, wincing at the movement. “A side effect.”  
  
“That doesn’t make _sense_.”  
  
“You think I _want_ to suffer through your ridiculous fantasies every night? I’d take the beatings over that idiotic drivel any day.”  
  
This was getting him nowhere. “Will you _stop_? I’m trying to...” he sighed. “Sure, you wanted to kill us. Kill everyone here, but that’s not all. I can feel it. Y-you teach lessons, with your curses, don’t you? Like Geralt’s - you wanted to teach him what it felt like to have something important taken from him. What are you trying to teach Lord Jannick? His family?”  
  
Annika drew closer, leering at him, looking like a corpse as the previously gentle curves of her face had been considerably sharpened by malnourishment.  
  
“Oh, you want to believe the bad witch isn’t all that bad. Is that it?” She gripped a bar with one spindly hand, making Jaskier fall backwards, nearly dropping his torch. “Sorry to burst your bubble. I’d sooner burn than tell you how to lift the curse.”  
  
Jaskier glared at her for a moment, suddenly feeling very drained. Before he stood, he stole a glance at the guard - he’d been startled by Jaskier’s sudden movements before but now he had his back to the bard, yelling down the hall at a particularly loud prisoner.  
  
Cautiously, Jaskier pulled a small vial from his pocket. After a moment’s consideration - because yes, this was probably dangerous and she’d taken a man’s ear off only last night - he slowly slipped his hand through the bars, passing the bottle to her with his left arm, shaking with effort and fear.  
  
As expected she grabbed his wrist in a bone-crushing grip, going to yank his whole arm through, perhaps take a finger with her, but something made her pause. Her grip softened momentarily, long fingers brushing the purplish bruise around his wrist - the one that matched hers perfectly, beneath the cuffs.  
  
Without a word she took the healing potion and released him, expression unreadable as he stood and told the guard he was ready to go.


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Taking some liberties with Ukrainian mythology here. I mean, yes, I _did_ think about making it canon that those dirty rotten lords were tickled to death, but ultimately decided they deserved a much worse fate xd 
> 
> I hope this chapter doesn’t feel rushed! My sweet bb roommate’s bday is today and I’m trying to edit before my apartment becomes a swarm of confused, drunk people who want to pet my pup.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Obsessed with the idea of some lord inviting these idiots into his keep, fully not expecting them to steal his food and wine and just generally wreak havoc. Oh, other stuff happens, too.

He supposed he looked a bit shaken when he finally made it back to the drawing room because Geralt was immediately at his side, silently checking him over. Jannick beckoned for his man to show them to their room. Once they were out from under the lord’s cold, calculating gaze Jaskier slipped his hand into Geralt’s, giving it a reassuring squeeze.  
  
The room seemed to be miles away, and each hallway they passed through was more disturbing than the last. Portraits of severe-looking men lined the walls, and there was a serious lack of lighting that allowed dark shadows to pool in every corner and crevice.  
  
“Love what they’ve done with the place.” Jaskier muttered, head whipping back and forth as he tried to simultaneously keep an eye on every single face that glared down at him. “You _have_ to tell me who is responsible for these paintings. No, really. I’m thinking about commissioning one for myself - it’s just so _charming_ , the way their eyes follow you everywhere. Wonderful party trick.”  
  
The guard ignored him, stopping in front of a large pair of double doors. Made from heavy gray stone, of course, like the entire bloody keep.  
  
“Here you are. We patrol this hall regularly, so if you step out of line or decide to visit your friend in the dungeons, we’ll know.”  
  
With that comforting statement he left, and it took Geralt’s strength to open the doors, revealing a cavernous room. More eerie portraits awaited them inside, and most of the furnishings were made of stone and covered in thick fur blankets.  
  
“Look, Geralt! They gave us the one with the creepy little _girl_. And her...tiny, human-faced dog? Yikes. Would it be absolutely terrible of me to...I don’t know, turn it around for the night?”  
  
Geralt went to answer but the bard abandoned that thought as quick as it had come and was now sitting on the bed, testing the mattress by bouncing on it. When he was satisfied, he slipped his lute out from where he’d had it safely strapped to his back, playing a few chords at random.  
  
“So, what did Jannick tell you about the curse?” It evolved into a playful little melody. “Annika gave me nothing, of course. She’s almost as pigheaded as you, I think...oh, but I _did_ learn our - er, _connection_ works both ways, so...”  
  
The Witcher rolled his eyes. “Your worst fears confirmed.” He struggled with something for a moment, trying to find the right words. “I’m sorry. For...showing that prick your arm. The way I did. Ugh. I don’t always think clearly, when it comes to you.” And then, for good measure. “Fuck.”  
  
Jaskier glanced down at the bruises in question, only just remembering they were there, and saw that they were rapidly fading. She drank the potion, then, at least. That was two for Annika - the first point had come when she made the conscious decision not to chomp off his little finger.  
  
“No - well, yes, a little warning would have been nice. But it’s fine, Geralt - you had to get him to stop _somehow_.” He didn’t say what he’d been thinking on his journey back from the dungeon, about what might happen if they failed to break the curse. If Jannick did end up burning Annika. What it might mean for him. He wanted to, but as he processed the last part of what Geralt had said, he blushed and found he could suddenly think of nothing else at all. “That works both ways, too, by the way. The not...thinking clearly. Thing. Gods, see? I’m a _bard_ and you somehow _regularly_ manage to turn me into a babbling fool.”  
  
“I don’t think you need my help with that, Jaskier.” Geralt shrugged out of his armor, looking somewhat - adorably - relieved, like a weight had been lifted. Jaskier resisted the urge to run to him, instead continuing his gentle ministrations on the lute with a small smile.  
  
“You didn’t answer my question, you old sap.”  
  
“Ugh. Right. Fucking Jannick. He had a lot to say, but the only useful thing he told me is that when they found the bodies, their hearts were missing. Among other things.” He cleared his throat. “Other _extremities_.”  
  
Jaskier gasped, his little song stopping abruptly with a sharp twang. “You don’t mean...”  
  
“Ripped clean off.”  
  
The bard used the instrument to protectively cover his lap. “ _Gross_ , Geralt.”  
  
Geralt walked over and gave him a light kiss on the forehead. “I’ll kill anything that tries.” And oh, the grin on his face was positively _wicked_ and wolfish as he drew back, allowing his gaze to move downwards. “And I find myself extremely motivated to make sure you remain... _intact_.”  
  
Jaskier laughed, trying his best to look at least a little scandalized. “Wo-ow, thanks for that. _Really_ , I think you are enjoying this _far_ too much. Besides, it’s the ‘trying’ bit that I’m most concerned about, honestly, you know I’m a magnet for these - “  
  
He was interrupted by a loud thud. Geralt whirled around, reaching for his sword, stopping when he saw the source of the noise.  
  
The painting of the girl had fallen off the wall, and she was now leering up at them from her new position on the floor.  
  
“ _That’s not gre-e-a-at._ ” Jaskier warbled, strumming a low chord on his lute. For dramatic effect, of course.  
  
Geralt took the painting and shoved it in a closet. “Better?”  
  
“ _No_. She’s probably waiting for us to fall asleep so she can unleash that miniature hell-beast upon us.”

♜ ♖

After Jaskier’s failed attempts to convince Geralt to burn the portrait, he decided he needed a bath.  
  
“I need a bath.”  
  
Geralt quirked a brow. “Again?”  
  
“ _Yes_ , Geralt. I’m dirty and dusty and very, very tense right now.”  
  
“Ah.” Geralt stepped closer, a hand snaking around his waist. “I think I can help.”  
  
The bard nodded a bit too eagerly - sure, they were trapped in a haunted keep, a two-day deadline to save a murderous witch from her brutal execution looming over their heads, but he was only human, after all. And Geralt was just far too irresistible, especially when he nuzzled Jaskier’s neck like that -  
  
He practically ran to start preparing the tub. It was surprisingly nice - large, made of copper. The entire bathroom was actually quite spectacular, considering how drab the rest of the place seemed to be. There was a surplus of towels and perfume bottles and interesting, yummy-smelling bath potions and powders.  
  
As he sniffed and tested and touched practically every one of them, he heard the distinct sound of Geralt heaving open one of the doors. “Hey! Where are you _going_ , Geralt?”  
  
“We need wine.”  
  
“But the man said - oh, you’re _bad_.” Jaskier grinned from where he was now emptying an entire bottle of some fragrant, soapy liquid into the water. “Well, hurry up. Did I mention I’m very, _very_ tense?”  
  
Geralt snorted and left, moving quietly - and yes, _quickly_ \- to the kitchen. Despite the guard’s warning, the halls were exceptionally, suspiciously silent. There wasn’t a single soul to stop him as he plundered the pantry.  
  
With the bath frothing and bubbling pleasantly - he might have been a _bit_ heavy-handed with the soap - Jaskier settled into the warm water, sighing happily.  
  
As he scrubbed any and all traces of the day’s journey from his body, he heard the bathroom door creak open.  
  
He peered over the tub’s copper edge, expecting Geralt, but found the doorway surprisingly void of the man’s hulking form. It was...empty.  
  
And actually, the Witcher was just reentering the bedroom with a large green bottle and a ridiculous amount of random food cradled in his arms. He used his foot to close the door behind him, kicking a little too hard and shaking the entire room.  
  
When he saw Jaskier gaping at him with bubbles in his hair, looking reasonably startled, he paused and offered the bard a muffled “what?” around the roll of bread caught between his teeth.  
  
“You...d-did you open the door? M-magically, maybe?” he ventured hopefully.  
  
A noise at the other end of the bathroom drew Jaskier’s attention away. There, in front of the mirror, was a naked woman standing with her back to him, fingers grazing over the colorful array of toiletries that lined the counter.  
  
Since her back was to him, the first thing he _noticed_ about her, naturally, was the distinct lack of _skin_ on it - he could clearly see her spinal cord and rib cage, internal organs held in by...sheer force of will, maybe? Jaskier had no earthly _idea_ but he found he couldn’t move, watching in horror as she rearranged the bottles, humming a soft tune. He thought he recognized it as the one he’d been playing earlier, before the painting fell. Oh, gods.  
  
He heard Geralt say something, but it was very far away. Managing to shake free of whatever trance had fallen upon him long enough to turn to the man, Jaskier pointed a shaky, accusatory finger at the skin-less...back-less _creature_ that had interrupted his bath.  
  
“ _Geralt_! Th-there’s a - a - a _thing_ m-messing with the...with the _stuff_ , it’s - “  
  
Jaskier watched as Geralt spat the bread out, dropping everything and running to him - no doubt sensing the presence before the bard could even attempt to describe it - but as he did the bathroom door slammed shut.  
  
The Witcher pounded on it, trying to break it down by the sound of it, but as Jaskier tried to scramble out of the tub the creature turned around and _screamed_ , the sound shattering the mirror and the bottles behind her, blowing out the candles.  
  
And Jaskier shrieked right back because although her face was strangely beautiful it was also _wrong_ , her jaw...unhinged, or dislocated, allowing him to see the endless abyss of her gaping maw.  
  
The last thing he saw was the monstrous woman diving at him with too-long fingers and curling, gnarled nails before his ears started ringing and he fainted, slipping beneath the water’s surface.

♜ ♖

Jaskier found himself sitting on a wooden stool in front of a small, dented square mirror. He squinted at himself in its warped reflection and found impossibly large green eyes blinking back, surrounded by an unruly mane of sun-kissed curls. There was at least one twig sticking out of it. He saw a little button nose with a smudge of dirt on the tip, and a terribly worn stuffed rabbit strewn across the table before him.  
  
He watched as his reflection stuck a tongue out at him, one chubby little finger reaching up to pull down an eyelid. This was followed by excited giggling as the girl proceeded to make more silly faces in the mirror.  
  
Jaskier knew who it was immediately - hadn’t met many people with eyes that were such an off-putting color, let alone a child. She couldn’t have been older than six. The last thing he remembered was sheer _terror_ as a monster descended upon him, so this...meant he was unconscious, maybe, and now trapped in her head once again. And gods, he really, _really_ hoped he wasn’t dead, that his last words to Geralt hadn’t been ‘there’s a thing messing with the stuff.’  
  
He tried to look around, assess his surroundings, but found that he couldn’t move, just as he hadn’t been able to move the last time this happened. But it felt different, somehow. Things were either very in or very out of focus, the little girl’s movements blurred at the edges. Sort of like a memory _within_ a dream. Far more pleasant, whatever it was, if not a little disconcerting.  
  
He sat in amusement as the faces grew more ridiculous, until a woman came up behind him.  
  
Through the reflection he could only see below her neck - a plain cornflower blue dress that shifted as she dipped a comb into a small pan of water on the table in front of him and started running it through the girl’s hair, gently easing the tangles and debris out.  
  
Young Annika squirmed around on the stool, fingers pushing her nose up like a pig. The woman laughed, a deep, pleasant sound.  
  
“That’s a new one, bunny.”  
  
A warm, wet washcloth came up and wiped the dirt from her nose.  
  
“You were down by the river again, weren’t you?”  
  
Annika nodded eagerly, fishing around in the pocket of her pinafore and pulling out a smooth stone. It was black with flecks of blue, and something about it unnerved Jaskier, though he couldn’t quite put his finger on why.  
  
She finally turned to the woman, handing her the small treasure, and Jaskier was able to get a clear look at her face for the first time. Her eyes were similar to the way Annika’s looked in present time - almond-shaped, almost feline. Maybe one or two shades lighter but still endlessly green. She was striking, but something about her was just a little off, and when she smiled it didn’t reach the rest of her face.  
  
He’d managed to get a fleeting look at the small house they were in, as well. The furniture was comically big, as everything was to a child, but even then it was scarce. A single bed, and a bedroll on the floor beside it. No kitchen, just a pot secured over the fireplace. An assortment of herbs and bottles lined the shelves, and a string of garlic was hanging by the door. There was a large, dusty rug that covered most of the floor.  
  
The woman examined the stone, brows furrowed, but before she could say anything someone pounded on the door. Annika looked through the thin curtains covering the window and Jaskier realized it was nighttime. There were several torches outside, a few rusty pitchforks, the sounds of angry shouting from the crowd that had found its way onto the rickety porch.  
  
Someone barked an order and the group of people backed down, dispersing so they could watch from afar - Jaskier couldn’t see anymore of it, however, as the woman was suddenly wrapping Annika in an old brown cloak, slipping the stone back in her pocket before taking her face into her hands. They were calloused and rough, like Geralt’s, but her touch was warm.  
  
Annika’s eyes kept darting nervously to the door as the pounding grew more insistent, but the woman tightened her grip on her face to get the girl’s attention.  
  
“Bun - _Annika_ \- I need you to listen. You know the cave we used to go to, when you follow the river? Near that old willow tree?”  
  
The girl nodded and everything blurred for a moment. Jaskier realized she was crying.  
  
“Go there and wait for me, okay? Out the back, so no one sees you. Don’t go anywhere with _anyone_ , no matter what they tell you. I’ll be there soon. Do you understand? _Wait_ for me.”  
  
Annika shook her head, a small hand grabbing at the front of the woman’s dress. It sounded like someone was trying to break down the door.  
  
There was a short lapse where Jaskier wasn’t clear on what was happening, but when it was over the woman was firmly pushing the girl out the back door, giving her a small smile and one more, urgent “go” before closing and locking it behind her.  
  
Annika - just as stubborn as a child as she was now, apparently - ducked down low and crawled through the grass in back of the house, little arms shaking as she heard the front door finally give.  
  
He couldn’t hear what was said, most of it either muffled or garbled - the result of how young she’d been when it happened, no doubt - but there were at least four voices now, one of which belonged to Annika’s sister.  
  
The little girl managed to find a small crack in the wall of the house and peeked through just as a man threw back the rug to reveal a large symbol painted in red. He pointed at it, shouting something unintelligible, as another man ransacked their cabinets, throwing candles and several other incriminating objects on the floor.  
  
There was darkness, then, perhaps from Annika closing her eyes. When she reopened them her sister was being shoved out of the house, a fiercely angry expression twisting her features. The door shut behind her, and slowly, the voices became more distinguishable.  
  
“Where’s the brat?”  
  
A familiar grunt. “You didn’t tell me she had a child.”  
  
“A sister, you imbecile.”  
  
The sounds of a scuffle, and Annika peered through the crack in the wall as Geralt of Rivia slammed the man who had spoken into the door, hands wrapped tightly around his neck.  
  
He looked different, in this memory. Long, pointy teeth and glowing red eyes. Much bigger than he actually was - nearly reaching the ceiling of the shack. And his two swords were absolutely massive, coated in blood.  
  
The artistic liberties of a scared child, Jaskier realized, watching in awe as his lover’s twisted visage grinned and continued to strangle the man, only releasing him when his knees started to buckle.  
  
“How old? Where could she have gone?” Geralt growled as the man coughed and spluttered, clutching his throat.  
  
“I don’t fucking _know_. The monster probably sacrificed her, too.”  
  
“Not likely.”  
  
The girl leaned closer, listening and trying to quiet shallow, scared breaths. Watching as the man grudgingly placed a fat coin purse in Geralt’s outstretched hand.  
  
“She’s a feral beast - and a mute. Hasn’t spoken a word since birth. Don’t trouble yourself with it. They’ve got family down the road.” That was a lie, Jaskier knew, somehow.  
  
A twig snapped beneath her elbow and suddenly Geralt’s head shot up, glaring in the direction of the sound. She gasped and shrank back, watching his boots, wood floorboards creaking as they stomped over the wicked symbol. He squatted in front of the wall.  
  
She had her hand over her mouth now, the sound of her breathing too loud, as one perilously red eye peered through the crack.  
  
“What’s her name?” Geralt asked then, voice much clearer with his close proximity. He sounded younger, Jaskier thought. Terrifyingly rough, but _definitely_ younger.  
  
He didn’t get to stick around and see more of this odd, warped version of Geralt, however, because Annika was suddenly scrambling to her feet and running. He heard the sound of a door slamming open, someone shouting after her, but she only sobbed and ran faster. Branches cut her face as she did, bare feet sinking into mud, and when she came upon a rushing river she dove in without a second thought. 

♜ ♖

Jaskier’s eyes flew open and as the world came back in bits and pieces he saw Geralt standing over him, driving his silver sword through the creature’s chest. The left sleeve of the Witcher’s shirt was shredded, blood seeping through five long, shallow cuts.  
  
He’d been dragged out of the bath, apparently, and was now on the floor of the bedroom - the bathroom door had been blown apart, reduced to a pile of large stone chunks. He was still soaked, trembling violently, but there was a blanket wrapped tightly around him.  
  
“Geralt, you’re _bleeding_ \- _Geralt_ , wh-what the _f-f-fuck_ is _that_?” His teeth chattered as he spoke, and he saw the tips of his fingers were quickly changing from blue to a healthy pink.  
  
“Mavka.” Geralt growled, pulling his sword out with a sickening squelch. It was covered in a brackish-looking sludge, in place of blood. The corpse of the thing, the mavka, dissolved into a puddle of dirty water, until all that remained was a wet carpet. “ _Fuck_. Killing them does nothing. She’ll be back.”  
  
Jaskier stood on shaky legs and approached the man, trembling left arm keeping the blanket in place while the fingers of his right reached out and touched the cuts on Geralt’s arm. Dark blue veins branched out under the skin, and when he drew back, the tips of his fingers were covered in bright red blood.  
  
“Why does it look like that? Is it poison? What do you mean she’ll be _back_?” Jaskier used his teeth to rip a piece of the blanket off, lightly pressing it into the other man’s arm. “Come, s-sit down, Geralt.”  
  
Geralt glanced down, a hand reaching up to settle over Jaskier’s, pressing down harder to staunch the flow of blood. “It won’t have any effect on me. I’ll be fine.” He dropped the sword and used his other hand to cradle the back of Jaskier’s head, gently drawing him in and kissing him. “You nearly drowned, Jaskier.”  
  
Jaskier tittered nervously. “Still intact, though this confirms that I am indeed a walking monster _magnet_.”  
  
He insistently nudged Geralt to sit in a chair by the fire, but by the time he’d gotten antiseptic and bandages from their pack, the cuts had already started closing on their own.  
  
“So, side note, what the bloody hell is a...a _mavka_?”  
  
Geralt picked up his sword and started cleaning it, glaring at the heavy layer of grime that coated its usually pristine silver surface. “Vengeful spirits of women who died unnaturally, before their time. Products of dark magic. She won’t go away until we lift the curse.” He glanced over at Jaskier, who was getting dressed, mop of brown hair drying into a wild mess, and his gruff tone eased up a bit as he fondly watched how clumsily the other man was putting on his pants. “They only target men. In this case, the men of Jannick’s house.”  
  
Jaskier let out a low whistle, taking a seat in the chair next to Geralt’s. “Or those just staying in it, apparently. That _does_ explain what happened to his father and uncle.”  
  
“He has a son, too.”  
  
Jaskier suddenly remembered what he’d seen, before - it had escaped his mind as soon as he opened his eyes to find Geralt fighting a monster and _bleeding_ , but now that things had settled, it all came rushing back to him with dizzying force.  
  
“I saw something, after I...gods, did I faint? Is that what that was? Anyway, I think Annika might have been dreaming, but it sort of felt like a memory. I don’t know, everything was so...convoluted.”  
  
He grabbed the bottle of wine from where Geralt had thrown it and took a sip, passing it to the other man as he went about describing what he’d seen as accurately as he could. When he was done, Geralt frowned. “Did it hurt you?”  
  
“N-no. It wasn’t like last time. Honestly, it’s hard to imagine that little girl turning into...well, Annika. In all her glory. But she seems to think you _knew_ about her. That you chased her. Did that really _happen_?” Jaskier had ended up scooting their chairs closer together as he told Annika’s side of the story and was now draped horizontally across his, head resting on its arm as he looked up at the ceiling.  
  
After a moment of silence, large blue eyes peered up into Geralt’s curiously, made comical by Jaskier’s currently upside-down position, but the other man redirected his gaze to the fireplace, guilt tugging at his conscience and making it difficult to make eye contact.  
  
“I’ve lived a long time, Jaskier. Everything starts to bleed together after awhile. I did try to look for her, I think. I would have helped her, but...she’d gone into the water. Difficult to track.”  
  
Jaskier nodded, reaching up to try and get Geralt to look back down at him. There was something bubbling beneath the surface of the Witcher’s passive, calm indifference, he could _tell_ , and he didn’t like how far away the other man suddenly seemed.  
  
”You know, you were about ten feet tall, in her dream...memory? Bollocks. Whatever the hell that was. You were an absolute _unit_. Well, more so than usual.”  
  
It was supposed to be a joke to lighten the mood, but an indescribable look crossed Geralt’s face. Fuck. Jaskier cursed himself for his stupid big mouth, heart clenching when he heard what Geralt said next.  
  
“She saw me as a monster.”  
  
“Oh, fuck me. I didn’t mean it like that, Geralt - I mean, maybe she did, but...” Gods, could he shove his foot any further down his throat? Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip, clumsily clambering up into a sitting position and fixing Geralt with a serious, but gentle look. “You aren’t. A monster, I mean. It was an awful situation, and those...bloody _arseholes_ used you. You couldn’t have known.”  
  
“No. I should have known.”  
  
A somber silence followed, Jaskier frustrated with the knowledge that it would take far more to convince Geralt otherwise. Still waters run deep, and Geralt wasn’t one to just let things go. He decided to try and lighten things up once more, and if it backfired on him again he was fully prepared to bash himself in the head with the wine bottle.  
  
“By the way, ‘bunny’ is off the table. Forever.”  
  
Geralt snorted. Success, and one less concussion for the bard. “‘Bunny’ was never _on_ the table, Jaskier.”  
  
“Oh, _yes_ , it was.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Mavka – (from Proto-Slavic *navь 'the dead') is a type of female spirit in Ukrainian mythology. She is a long-haired figure, sometimes naked, who may be dangerous to young men.
> 
> (they also don’t have backs and “tickle” their victims to death, but they’re not necessarily bad so...we’ll see)


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Can anyone guess how I’m feeling today??? Actually not *that* bad, especially because I, unlike Jaskier, do not have to gaze upon the mangled corpse of...aw, fuck. I had this. Harding? Harvey? 
> 
> Also thank you for giving me ger-bear, it’s *chef’s kiss* perfection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Annika: boop  
> Jaskier: instant heart attack

They stood over the body in the stables, Geralt’s face somehow displaying the perfect balance of detachment and disgust. Jaskier, who had held his own for a moment, suddenly lurched to the side, hand flying to his mouth as he tried to keep their pilfered feast of bread and wine from the previous night down.  
  
Once he recovered he staggered back to Geralt’s side, ignoring the other man’s irritated grunt when he used his shoulder for support, a low keen escaping the back of his throat as he forced himself to gaze upon the corpse once more. “Oh, _ugh_. Buh- _legh_.” He covered his eyes and then peeked through his fingers. “ _Why_ , Geralt?”  
  
“Then stop looking.”  
  
“I _can’t_ \- I mean, where’s the honor? Just _look_ at him, Geralt!”  
  
“I am.”  
  
It was the guard who brought them to their room, Haverford or...Harrington. _Something_ with an H. His pants were around his ankles and shirt ripped open, a cavity in his chest where his heart had been. Other _dangling participles_ were glaringly absent, too. When Jaskier’s eyes traveled back down south he found himself on his knees and retching into a pile of hay once more.  
  
“Sorry, horsies.” Jaskier murmured, blindly reaching out to pet a nonexistent animal, because it was the ass crack of dawn and the horses were still asleep in their little horse rooms.  
  
In his defense they _did_ manage to kill the bottle of wine, staying up far too late to discuss the specifics of this new curse, among other things. After that Geralt had ventured out for more, although this time with a not-so-stealthy bard in tow. As a result he was now violently hungover.  
  
Annoyed, too, because Geralt was completely unaffected and not suffering alongside him as Jaskier thought he ought to be. He let out a dramatic sob as his hand ghosted through thin air, letting it fall into the hay and dirt beneath him. “Sorry, Roach. My best girl.”  
  
Geralt smirked at that, but it vanished as soon as the man who had summoned them - another guard - spoke. “We haven’t had a death like this in years, Witcher. Awful convenient for them to start up again, soon as you and that fuckin’ idiot show up, don’t you think?”  
  
Before Geralt could answer Jaskier straightened suddenly, fixing the guard with a churlish little scowl, blue eyes bloodshot and irate, a bit watery - from not getting to pet his brown-coated friend, of course.  
  
“So - no - wait, hold on a bloody second. Let me get this straight.” The guard went to speak but Jaskier held up a finger. “Just _hold on_. You’re implying that upon our arrival _just_ last night, after offering our aid, we decided to castrate a man and rip his heart out - in the very same _fashion_ several others have died, within these very same _walls_? Just brutally killing Henry, for no fathomable reason?”  
  
The guard frowned, gesturing to the small pile of hay and vomit. “His name was Harlow. And you’ve been spewing red all morning. I don’t know what you freaks get up to, but I’ve heard some nasty tales about _Witchers_ in my day.” He hacked a glob of phlegm on the ground at Jaskier’s feet. “Maybe you _ate_ his heart.”  
  
He spluttered and turned to Geralt for assistance but the other man simply shook his head. And had the audacity to _shrug_. “That - you think we _ate_ his..? That’s _wine_ , you foul-mouthed - “  
  
“Where’d you get the wine, then, bard? Pantry’s looking a bit sparse. You a thief as well as a murderer?”  
  
Jaskier let out an offended gasp and clutched his chest, glossing right over the fact that half of that statement was true. “Take that back!” He thrust a finger at the body before them and, naturally, it said nothing. “Harold would _never_ speak to us like this, he was a respectful, _quiet_ \- “  
  
“It’s _Harlow_ , you overgrown cock hair - “  
  
Geralt decided to step in and interrupt the argument then, finally, as it had gone from tense to childish and spiteful _very_ fast. He placed a hand on Jaskier’s chest as the bard continued to make unintelligible, angry noises, gently nudging him back, safely behind him and away from the incensed, armed guard.  
  
“Does Lord Jannick know about this yet?”  
  
The guard glared at Jaskier over his shoulder for a moment before turning back to Geralt, cowed by the mention of his lord’s name. “Aye. Not bloody pleased about it, neither. His best man, reduced to a puddle of...” a steel-toed boot prodded at the body, at blue fingers and bloated skin, making Jaskier’s delicate stomach roil. “goo.”  
  
“Tell him we need full access to the grounds.”  
  
Jaskier made a face at the man over Geralt’s shoulder and then ducked back down as the guard’s grip on his spear tightened, eyes narrowed to suspicious slits.  
  
“You wouldn’t happen to mean the dungeons, would you?”  
  
“I mean _everywhere_.”  
  
“Yeah, right.” The guard nodded to a farmhand who approached them with a wheelbarrow, and they went about hoisting Harlow’s body onto it. “Strict instructions not to let either one of you down there.”  
  
“How do you propose we go about breaking this curse if we can’t talk to the woman who is _responsible_ for it?” Jaskier’s voice was nasally - he’d pinched his nose as an awful, sewer-like stench filled the air, the dead man thrown into the cart with a horribly wet _plop_.  
  
Geralt nodded curtly. “We have nothing to gain from helping her escape.”  
  
“Is that so?” The guard gave both men a nasty, lecherous look. “Word in the barracks is, that swamp hag is in cahoots with your shite bard. That he’s got the marks to prove it.”  
  
“ _Shite bard_?”  
  
The Witcher internally groaned. He knew it had been a mistake, revealing Jaskier’s connection to Annika. One that would surely bite him in the ass at some point. Jannick had no reason to try and use it against him, but in small, rural villages like this, the slightest whiff of dark magic on a person turned them into a fucking pariah. Just like Astrid.  
  
But his face remained impressively passive, not giving the guard an inch. “Tell Jannick or the deal’s off. And I’ll need to get into his father’s quarters, as well as his uncle’s.”  
  
The man grumbled and stalked off, back to the keep. As he went, Jaskier gave a little wave before rolling his eyes and turning back to Geralt. “What a _tosser_. Can you believe he called me a shite bard, Geralt? He hasn’t even heard the sweet timbre of my singing voice. More like shite _guard_.”  
  
“You need to be more careful, Jaskier. If you go inciting an angry mob of villagers I’m just going to let them have you.” Geralt’s gruff voice was playful, and Jaskier gave him a half-hearted shove as they went off in search of breakfast.  
  
“Whatever you say, Ger-bear. But then you’ll have to find someone else to polish your wonderful knob.”  
  
The Witcher stopped dead in his tracks. “Ger-bear?”  
  
Jaskier tried tugging him along, desperate to fill his stomach with something other than wine and...bile. “Yes, Ger- _bear_ , because you’re just so fearsome and grizzly. Nothing to do with the fact that you’re secretly a big _softie_. What - what’s with the face? Not a fan of that, either?”  
  
“One more time and I’ll feed you to the mavka.”  
  
“Right, okay... _Ger-bear_.”  
  
Jaskier laughed and tried to run but Geralt grabbed him about the waist with a low growl, pulling him in, swallowing all cries of the awful nickname with a kiss. 

♜ ♖

The guard found them again about an hour later, proverbial tail between his legs.  
  
“Lord Jannick says you’re allowed in the dungeons under supervision. Master chambers are still off limits, though, and locked up tight. The whole east wing, actually. So don’t bloody try it.”  
  
Geralt sighed - he’d thought as much. People didn’t just abandon entire areas of their homes, even if it was under the guise of honoring the dead. They’d have to revisit that later, if Annika proved to be as unhelpful as she had been when Jaskier went to speak with her.  
  
“Fine. Take us to her.”  
  
He said nothing as Jaskier slipped a roll into his pocket from a basket on the table. They followed the guard down a long, damp corridor until they were outside. He unlocked the massive doors to the dungeon, gesturing for them to go down winding stairs. Eventually they came upon Annika’s cell.  
  
Geralt stood silently and watched as Jaskier fumbled with his torch, squatting in front of the cell bars as he had last time, and the Witcher felt a sudden flare of anger as Annika’s ghostly face emerged from the shadows. She gave Jaskier a slick, unpleasant smile, blood in her teeth.  
  
His anger intensified at the sight of it, and he watched the younger man pass the bread through the bars, forcing himself to take a deep breath, to remain calm and ready to act if she tried anything. He hadn’t expected to feel like this around her and it mixed unpleasantly with lingering guilt, the responsibility he felt for how she’d turned out.  
  
“You’re welcome.” Annika hissed, snatching the roll of bread from Jaskier’s outstretched hand with a glare.  
  
The bard fixed her with a withering look. “I think you mean ‘thank you.’ That’s just proper etiquette, you know, when someone tries to _help_ \- honestly, you and Geralt _combined_.”  
  
Geralt made a deep, irritated rumbling noise that had Jaskier stealing a glance at him. The smaller man offered an apologetic shrug and the Witcher found he instantly forgave him, unable to resist the gentle curve of his lips as they turned up in a teasing little smile.  
  
“I see you brought your guard dog.” she said after a moment, ripping off a small piece of the pastry and eyeing it suspiciously before popping it in her mouth.  
  
Geralt hadn’t seen her since they took her away that night, in the grand duke’s castle. Her skin was almost transparent now. She’d taken a seat on the floor, impossibly long legs tangled up in an awkward, almost serpentine position - one tucked beneath her, the other propped up at her side, held in place by her arm. Her cheek rested against a bony knee.  
  
Jaskier sighed in frustration. Watching her sit like that seemed to make him uncomfortable, Geralt observed, as the bard shifted from where he was currently crouched on the floor, adjusting his legs beneath him.  
  
“ _Annika_ \- “  
  
“I saved your hide, bard. Technically you’re the one displaying improper _etiquette_ , bursting in here and demanding I thank you for...” she pulled a face and spat a small, chewed-up black mass into her hand, showing it to Jaskier - who wrinkled his nose at the offering. “a stale roll of _raisin_ bread?”  
  
“I happen to _like_ raisins - “  
  
Geralt cut them both off, glowering down at the woman. He wasn’t ready yet, to get down to her level the way Jaskier was. He could still smell that night on her, the pleasure she’d gotten from hurting them. Could smell her blood-lust, too, as she studied Jaskier’s every move.  
  
“What do you mean you saved him?”  
  
A bored sigh followed by a painstakingly long stretch of silence while Annika finished the roll, abandoning her snarky attitude as hunger got the better of her. When she was done she gestured to Jaskier’s flask, which he reluctantly passed to her, watching as she downed the rest of his cordial.  
  
“Last night. You met my friend, didn’t you? About six feet tall, quite thin-skinned. _Loves_ men, but is particularly fond of scrumptious little morsels like _you_.” A spindly finger reached out and poked the tip of Jaskier’s nose through the bars, which had him reeling backwards, hand flying up to make sure she hadn’t somehow swiped the thing off his face. Geralt tensed, hand clutching the hilt of his blade. “And their _instruments_.”  
  
“Bloody hell, don’t _do_ that!” Jaskier’s voice cracked shrilly, edging away from the cell with all the subtlety of a wounded _crab_ until he was sure she couldn’t reach him.  
  
“Stop speaking in riddles.” Geralt snarled, taking a step closer to fill the space between Jaskier and the witch. “What the fuck are you talking about? I saved him from the mavka.”  
  
Annika pretended to consider that for a moment, before shaking her head. “Um, no, sorry. You would have been about a minute too late, I’m afraid, before she spirited him to a secluded part of the keep to have a little fun. Good effort, though. Very gallant.” She rolled her eyes, turning to the bard. “How can you _stand_ him?”  
  
“Wait - were you able to move around, last night? I never can and it’s a _nuisance_. You somehow _never_ manage to look in the direction I want you to.” Color suddenly drained from Jaskier’s face when he realized how terrifying it would be if she actually _could_ use his body. _Again_.  
  
“Obviously not. Wouldn’t I just let myself out of the cell? Do you even _think_ before you speak?” A wicked smile crossed her face. “Ah, right. _Occasionally_. But the mavka can’t hurt me, so I’ll let you do the math.”  
  
Geralt grimaced, not about to thank her for -  
  
“Well, _thank_ you. Even though it was something you had absolutely no control over, and I imagine you would have let me die if you did.”  
  
Fucking _Jaskier_.  
  
He thought he saw some of the venom leave her twisted grin at that, an unnervingly tender look in her eyes as they regarded the bard, but when he realized they’d been down there for at least fifteen minutes and hadn’t once discussed how to break the curse he grew suspicious.  
  
“You’re stalling.”  
  
“Well spotted.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened. “But _why_?”  
  
“I already told you, I’d rather burn.” A small shrug. “Sorry.”  
  
But the bard refused to accept that, now clambering up to her on his knees, splashing in a vile brown puddle on the floor. “No you _wouldn’t_! I saw it, last night - you were just a little girl, and your sister, Astrid, loved - “  
  
Geralt saw the movement almost before it happened, was ready for it - he grabbed Jaskier’s collar, yanking him back just as Annika’s hand darted out, going for his throat, cuffs banging against the constraints of her cell and sending a sharp, rattling echo down the hall.  
  
“Say her name again and I’ll have your tongue.” the witch spat, hands now throttling iron bars in place of Jaskier’s neck.  
  
The Witcher decided he’d had enough of her games. She clearly wasn’t ready to talk and Jaskier was too involved, crystal clear blue eyes searching the witch’s face for _something_ as he allowed Geralt to hoist him up and drag him away.  
  
When they reached the surface again - the moist, oppressive atmosphere of the dungeon giving way to crisp autumn air - Jaskier finally came back to himself and shook free from Geralt’s grip. He threw his flask on the ground, flinching as the top of it broke off, the remnants of a cherry-red liquid trickling out onto the dirt.  
  
“Why is she _like_ that? She’s already killed everyone responsible, and poor _Harry_ , and - “  
  
Geralt put a hand on his shoulder, urging him closer. “An eye for an eye leaves everybody blind.” Jaskier hung his head, pressing the top of it into Geralt’s chest. “And I think his name was Harlow.”  
  
A soft laugh, muffled by the fabric of Geralt’s shirt. “Proverbs make you sound like an old fart, Geralt.”  
  
“Yeah.” He patted Jaskier’s back, looking up and squinting around the outside area of the keep they’d resurfaced in; the guard, who had trailed after them and wisely kept his distance during their encounter with Annika, locked the door to the dungeons and left. “Come on. Fuck her for now. I have a feeling we’ll find some answers in the east wing.”  
  
“But it’s _locked_ , and probably heavily guarded. They won’t just let us mosey on in, especially if they’re hiding something in there.”  
  
Geralt gave him a look. “You _know_ how to pick a lock, Jaskier. I had to come collect you after you broke into...ugh, what the fuck was his name? Something idiotic, like...”  
  
“ _Wigbert_ \- now _that’s_ a name I’ll never bloody forget. But you make me sound like such a rascal - it was _one_ time and I just wanted to see if he was lying about that painting being a first edition - ” Jaskier stopped and huffed a sigh, fishing around in his pocket. After a moment he produced a worn lockpick. “If we _must_.”


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just a really short, fluffy, poorly-edited nonsense chapter because I have a candlelit dinner date with destiny! And by destiny I mean my dog, the light of my life, and we’re sharing a meal. Next update will continue on with the story but for now, have a lovely v-day and don’t forget to toss a valentine to your Witcher!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not plot-related, just a Valentine’s Day flashback!

**Many Years Prior**

“Ah, Geralt! Thought I’d find you in a...” blue eyes darted around the seedy tavern, filled with drunks and brutes and ladies of the evening. “ _lovely_ establishment such as this. Not judging, we’ve all been there. But I’m afraid I require your assistance, and I’ve heard such wonderful tales of your bravery. From that devilishly handsome bard - you know, the one you’ve been _avoiding_ for the last six months?”  
  
Geralt glared up at the irritating presence standing before him. The bard had on some garish outfit, bright red with pink details and ridiculously puffy sleeves. It hurt his eyes.  
  
After a moment he grunted and turned to the man at the other end of his table, who was about ten drinks deep and periodically rousing himself from his alcohol-induced stupor just long enough to giggle at a topless woman in the corner.  
  
“Do you hear something?”  
  
The drunk peered over at Jaskier with bloodshot eyes, taking in the outfit and the rose on his lapel, before turning back to Geralt and quickly shaking his head.  
  
Jaskier gasped indignantly and put his hands on his hips. “Oi! I know you can _hear_ me, Geralt. You can be such a child sometimes.” He gave the drunk an accusatory look, and the man burbled something incoherent, shrinking back into his flagon. “And you! Don’t encourage him, he’s been on this bloody ridiculous bender for months and...you’re asleep now. Good. Who is this sad man, Geralt?”  
  
“Leave me alone, Jaskier.”  
  
Jaskier stubbornly shook his head, taking a seat on the bench across from Geralt and stealing a sip of his drink, which earned him a low, menacing growl.  
  
“I refuse to let you wallow in...” Jaskier eyed a suspicious puddle. “ _ugh_ , is that beer or piss? Whatever, doesn’t matter. No more wallowing. Especially not on this wondrous, this _magical_ day of love and - and - are you _listening_ to me, Geralt?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“Right, yeah, that actually tells me that you _are_.” Jaskier studied Geralt’s stoic face, giving him a serious look. “You know you can’t win them all - what Filavandrel did with your advice is on him, not you.”  
  
Geralt grunted and leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms over his chest. “Just tell me why you’re here.”  
  
The bard sighed, wanting very badly to press the matter further but knowing he probably wouldn’t be getting much more out of the other man.  
  
“Well, there is a celebratory _feast_ happening tonight and I think it’s just what you need. A little cheering up, perhaps? Beautiful women, copious amounts of _booze_ , some delectable hors d’ouevres - what say you, old friend?”  
  
“Who did you piss of this time?”  
  
Jaskier thought about that for a moment, muttering a few names and keeping count of something with his fingers. “Hmm...I think it’s a couple of brothers? No, five. Five brothers. I _might_ have slept with their mother, once or twice. Or was it three times? I don’t know - in my defense, she looks _spectacular_ for her age, and she didn’t tell me she was _married_ , or that she had an entire _brood_ of massive...hulking...”  
  
Geralt put up a hand to stop his little rant, rolling his eyes. “Fine. I don’t need details.”  
  
“But I just have to tell you about this marvelous thing she did with her - “  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
“Oh, all right. I knew you’d say yes, anyway, so I’ve got your outfit all ready back at the - “  
  
The other man eyed him suspiciously. “My what?”  
  
“For the dress code, Geralt, it’s _required_.” Jaskier proudly displayed his doublet. “And we get to match!”  
  
It took nearly an hour more of convincing, Jaskier practically on his hands and knees, _begging_ Geralt to come. There might have been tears. Eventually, mostly to get him to shut up, the other man agreed - but not without a few conditions. He would wear red, but absolutely _no_ puffed sleeves or floral adornments. And Jaskier did try desperately to get him to budge on that part, to no avail.  
  
As they made to leave, the drunk from before grabbed Geralt’s sleeve suddenly, shooting a fearful look at Jaskier. “Is the fancy fellow _real_?”  
  
Geralt snorted, and Jaskier made an exasperated, incredulous sound. “Fancy - ? Oh, that’s just - the company you keep when I’m not around, Geralt. Honestly. You’ve got him all confused, pretending you couldn’t hear me earlier and now - ugh, come on, let’s just go.” 

♜ ♖

As the party reached its peak, Jaskier sauntered over to Geralt, a sloppy, sneaky little smile on his face, cheeks flushed from alcohol and dancing. He had one hand behind his back, but wasn’t hiding the object very well. Geralt could see a green stem peeking out from behind him.  
  
Jaskier cursed, pricking his finger on a thorn, and Geralt watched him fumble around with an unamused expression. “Shouldn’t you be giving that to one of them?” He jerked his head towards the other end of the hall, where women were currently receiving roses from various suitors.  
  
That impish smile evolved into a broad grin and despite the fact that his secret had been blown, was never much of a secret at all, he dramatically revealed the rose and thrust it into Geralt’s chest. And had the nerve to use his other hand to practically _force_ Geralt to hold the damn thing. A thorn slid into the larger man’s palm, meriting a low hiss.  
  
“ _No_ , no no no. _No_. I want to give - _hic_ \- give it to _you_.”  
  
Geralt looked down at the flower, somewhat crushed from Jaskier’s manhandling, and made a face. “Uh. Thanks.” A finger suddenly came up to his lips and he frowned, glowering down at its owner, the drunk bastard.  
  
“Shh, shush. A gift. To my dearest, best - bestest? Bollocks. My _best_ friend in the whole wide world. For putting up with me all night and looking _so_ incre-in _credibly_ dapper in his little doublet.” A gentle pat on Geralt’s chest, Jaskier’s hand lingering to appreciate the soft, glaringly red silk material.  
  
“You’re drunk.” His palm was bleeding lightly now, a few drops of red staining the flower’s stem. “And you didn’t even remove the thorns. This is a bad gift.”  
  
When he saw the blood Jaskier’s eyes widened and he snatched the flower back, glaring at it as though it had betrayed him somehow. After a moment’s consideration he ripped off the bottom part of the stem, discarding it carelessly on the floor. He then stepped even closer to Geralt, their faces inches apart as the bard stood on the tips of his toes, trying to get it to stay put on Geralt’s lapel.  
  
Upon finishing he took a step back, admiring his work. “There! Now we really match.” His giggle slurred a bit as he pointed at his own adornment.  
  
“Fantastic.” Geralt deadpanned, looking down at the rose, which had now lost several petals and was looking even sadder than before. An odd feeling tugged at the pit of his stomach but he ignored it, choosing instead to down the rest of his drink as Jaskier floated away once more, mingling with the rest of the crowd.  
  
The evening progressed without incident, thankfully, and as the partygoers dispersed he found Jaskier standing on a table, singing an incredibly raunchy song about succubi - in this version they were referred to as ‘horny goat women,’ however.  
  
With very little effort he lugged the bard’s inebriated ass to the local inn, making sure he was set up - and would _stay put_ \- for the night before going back to his own room.  
  
As he took off the horrible outfit and changed into his usual black ensemble, he noticed the rose had fallen on the floor and was about to be crushed by his boot. Geralt glared at it for a moment, boot hovering in the air, and considered grinding it into the dusty wood floor.  
  
Nobody was there to watch, though, as the Witcher slowly, carefully, retracted his foot and bent down, snatching the rose up and stashing it safely in his pocket.


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The rest of this chapter will be up tomorrow in a separate update, as it’s quite hefty and this ended up being a real quick real deep look into Geralt’s ~feelings~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Typed “aristocat” by accident at least 10 times xo

Jaskier frowned, peering through the small, dirt-streaked window at the one remaining guard sitting _stubbornly_ outside the entrance of the east wing. The sun was high in the sky by then, and while Geralt was content to sit patiently and sweat in his armor for the rest of the day, Jaskier abhorred being this stagnant and this _quiet_ for even short stretches of time. When he thought he’d finally cracked, that he absolutely could not take a second more of this tedious _waiting_ and _watching_ , the guard miraculously stood and left.  
  
“Geralt.”  
  
“For the last time, Jaskier, _no_. I do not want to talk to Mittens right now.”  
  
The bard snorted - they’d set up shop in a discreet, muddy alleyway, and at some point he’d befriended a small kitten that he’d affectionately started referring to as ‘Mittens of Rivia.’ Because of her adorable black and white fur and mud-stained brown paws, of course. The fact that her first act upon meeting them had been to dramatically leap from the roof onto Geralt’s lap was just an added bonus.  
  
“Well, she doesn’t want to talk to you, _either_. She left about an hour ago, after you bored her to tears with your incessant meditating.”  
  
Geralt cracked an eye open, glaring at Jaskier from the bale of hay he was seated upon. “We’ve only _been_ here an hour.”  
  
“Only - ? That can’t be true.” He squinted up at the sun, noticing its position hadn’t changed nearly as much as he’d originally thought. “Why does it feel like _forever_ , Geralt?”  
  
“Because you have the attention span of a housefly.”  
  
Jaskier gasped, about to refute that _loathsome_ claim when he suddenly remembered what had inspired this wonderful discussion. “The - the _man_ , Geralt. He left. You told me to tell you when he left.”  
  
Both eyes were open now as Geralt stood, looking through the window and frowning at the empty chair. “Damn it, Jaskier. How long?”  
  
“Three...five minutes? Eight, maybe?” A pause, Geralt’s eyes narrowing suspiciously as Jaskier stopped to consider the fact that he’d spent at least one minute doing his calculations. “...Nine minutes? Nine and a - ack, _Geralt_ , be _gentle_ \- “ he was cut off as the Witcher wordlessly yanked him up from his own comfy bale of hay, dragging him around the corner and through the side door. He coughed and spluttered as they broke through several cobwebs, gagging by the time they’d made it back inside the keep.  
  
Geralt released him in front of the two massive doors he’d been spying on from a safe distance for the last hour and...ten minutes? “Why are you so _grumpy_ today, Geralt? I’ll have you know, Mittens of Rivia would never stand for - oh, yikes. _That’s_ the lock?” A low whistle as he crouched before one of the doors.  
  
They were colossal, reaching the cavernous ceiling, about fifteen or twenty feet high. Unlike the rest of the keep’s boring decor they were quite beautiful, inlaid with delicate gold and silver designs. The lock was larger than he’d imagined, and upon taking out his pick and prodding around, he realized it was far more complex than the usual aristocrat’s security measures.  
  
Geralt took a seat in the guard’s abandoned chair, crossing his arms over his chest and watching Jaskier work. He was particularly grumpy because while he _had_ been trying to meditate, he found he had trouble clearing his mind of certain...external influences. And it had nothing to do with how much they talked, either.  
  
Before all of this, he’d been able to block out Jaskier and _most_ of his ramblings, but recently he found that a part of him had started refusing to let that happen. Like now, for instance - he was meant to be keeping an eye out for any trouble, but for some reason couldn’t take his eyes _off_ the way the bard’s tongue jutted ever-so-slightly out of the corner of his mouth as he fiddled with the lock.  
  
It was an endearing habit, a product of intense concentration, and one of many that Geralt had slowly started picking up on in the last few weeks. The way he licked his lips before he said something serious, or puffed his chest out a bit when he was offended (or about to do something incredibly stupid, like when he tried facing down a fucking armed _guard_ just a few hours ago) -  
  
Feeling Geralt’s heated, unwavering gaze on his back, Jaskier paused and cocked his head in the other man’s direction, a curious look on his face. “What is it, Geralt? Are you done being ever so _mean_ to me?” That look evolved into an impish little grin as he noticed something else in Geralt’s vaguely resentful glare. “ _Or_ is it that you like what you see? So fiercely that maybe it _scares_ you, just a little bit? You know, I’m very good with my - bollocks.” He scrambled to catch the pick as it slipped out of the lock, clattering noisily to the floor. “ _Hands_. I was going to say hands, not...gods.”  
  
Geralt groaned, and it was a genuinely irritated sound because he was slowly, steadily starting to realize how fucked he was. Even Jaskier’s poor pick-up lines, that used to inspire mean laughter, Geralt slapping him on the back and making him choke on the ale he’d been trying to drown himself in, were now too _adorable_ for him to stand.  
  
“Just focus.”  
  
It was unclear whether that was directed at himself or the bard.  
  
Jaskier let out a petulant little sigh, turning back to the gold impediment, nimble fingers moving expertly around as he searched for the telltale sweet spot.  
  
Geralt forced himself to look away, instead gazing out the window and watching a small congregation of guards that had formed in the yard. If he could just fucking _focus_ , he’d be able to hear them, hear what they were discussing -  
  
A small black shadow streaked past the window then and he watched _Mittens_ as she tackled and wrestled with another, older cat. All thoughts of Jaskier came stubbornly flooding back; the way he’d coaxed her out from the corner she’d scurried off to upon hearing Geralt’s irritated growl, offering her a small piece of bread, _befriending_ the stray even though she’d managed to get a few good scratches on him first, but he only laughed and forgave her as soon as she lapped at the thin red lines on his hand -  
  
Bits and pieces floated back to him from the yard and when he turned back to the group of guards, he noticed one of them was pointing right at him. They hadn’t seen him, yet, thanks to the glare of the sun bouncing off the dusty panes, so he squinted and listened harder, trying to pick up on what was being said.  
  
“ - and that pompous prick, haven’t seen ‘em in an hour, at least - “  
  
“ - asking questions about the east wing, Lord Jannick says he’ll have their heads if they - “  
  
“ - better go check it out.”  
  
_Fuck_.  
  
Geralt shot out of his seat, knocking it over and startling Jaskier. “Bloody hell, Geralt, _what_ \- “ He took in the alarmed look on the other man’s face and his tone lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. “What’s wrong?”  
  
The guards dispersed, a few of them moving towards the east wing while another handful made their way to the main keep. A couple headed south, towards the dungeons. The sun’s glare relented momentarily as a cloud passed by and when they saw his shadow moving in the window, they started to run, drawing their weapons.  
  
“How long until you get that open?”  
  
Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip, frowning at being rushed but knowing that Geralt _wouldn’t_ rush him unless something was wrong. After a painstakingly long moment, as Geralt reached for his own sword and prepared for a fight, there was a soft click. The door swung open with a loud, labored creak.  
  
“Got it!” The bard grinned, relieved, but then choked on his words as Geralt suddenly hoisted him up and pulled him through.  
  
Footsteps pounded down the adjacent corridor and Jaskier caught a glimpse of a few guards spilling out into the hallway before Geralt slammed the door behind them, locking it and casting a barrier.  
  
Jaskier’s chest heaved as he sagged against the cool stone, recoiling when he heard the warbled sounds of fists and weapons raining down on it from the other side. He turned to Geralt with almost comically wide eyes, having been unceremoniously ripped from his bubble of concentration. “For fuck’s sake, Geralt, what just _happened_?”  
  
The Witcher sheathed his weapon, glaring at the door for a moment before sighing and checking Jaskier over for any signs of injury. When he was satisfied, he allowed his hand to settle in the other man’s and turned to stare down the long, dimly-lit hallway they’d ended up in.  
  
More cobwebs created a fine blanket over delicate antiquities and unpolished statuettes. There were several doors lining the walls and the floors were made of marble, coated in several years’ worth of dirt and dust.  
  
“I think Lord Jannick just cut our deadline in half. _Fuck_.”


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The second half of the east wing exploration! As a warning, there are some very dark themes that come up towards the end of the chapter - specifically implied, attempted noncon involving a child. It’s a very short segment, discussed vaguely in past tense because I wanted to leave it up to the reader to fill in the blanks of what happened. I’ve marked any mention of it with a ♞ symbol from start to finish, so it can easily be avoided.
> 
> Ok gonna go hug my puppy now

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier are the couple who never stop holding hands, even when it’s totally inconvenient.

“What do you _mean_ , Geralt? How do you know? If we can speak to Jannick, tell him it’s all a misunderstanding, maybe...” Jaskier paused from where he had been trailing after Geralt down the long, winding hall. “Is...is Annika in danger, too?”  
  
Geralt had grabbed a broken-off wooden beam from the floor and used a small bundle of cobwebs to fashion a torch, igniting it with the palm of his hand. The hall’s lighting left much to be desired, steadily allowing shadows to breach their respective corners the deeper they traversed. This was due to a distinct lack of windows keeping the afternoon sun at bay, and any that did line its crumbling walls were either boarded up or painted over.  
  
When he heard Jaskier’s concerned, fretful tone he frowned, squeezing the hand that was still securely tethered to his. Jaskier’s palm was blessedly warm, slightly clammy, and when he asked about the witch Geralt could smell his nerves, potent and frayed, alight like live wires. He knew what the bard needed now was honesty. No sugar-coating, no skating around the truth.  
  
“Hard to say. I saw a few guards head for the dungeons. Looking for us.” A heavy sigh followed, because _there_ it fucking was. The fabled bite in the ass he’d been waiting for. “I’m sure they’ll try using her against us. Expedite her sentencing to lure us out. I shouldn’t have fucking told him about you two.”  
  
It was Jaskier’s turn to frown, then, and he stopped short, not breaking contact but stubbornly tugging at Geralt’s hand to get him to slow down. “We need to go back and _help_ her, Geralt.”  
  
“Jaskier, the curse - “  
  
“I don’t _care_ about the bloody curse anymore, Geralt! I won’t stand idly by while they burn her like...like a bad _crop_. Maybe the men of Jannick’s house _deserve_ this. M-maybe it’s justice, finally being served.”  
  
Geralt searched Jaskier’s eyes for a moment before taking his chin into his hand, drawing his face closer and fixing him with a serious look. The firelight cast long shadows across the tight, hard lines of his face.  
  
“Think clearly. His son is a child. You don’t mean that.”  
  
After a moment, Jaskier released a shaky breath, gazing down at the floor. “No...no, I don’t.”  
  
“Jannick won’t do anything drastic, not while we’re in here. We have time, Jaskier. To look around. Find some fucking answers in this shithole.”  
  
The bard scanned the hall with an unsavory expression.  
  
“Oh, all right, then. Let us away.” 

♜ ♖

As they descended further into the east wing, the atmosphere grew heavy with moisture. Mold and decay were evident behind faded, peeling wallpaper, branching out in inky black tendrils from small crevices in the stone walls beneath.  
  
The only door they’d found gave way to another long, narrow corridor, its floor obscured by shallow, murky water that reached just above Jaskier’s ankle. He’d rolled up his pants, which was decidedly not the move - he periodically yelped and shivered, clinging to Geralt whenever he felt a foreign object graze exposed, sensitive skin.  
  
It was mostly just debris, knocked loose by weather and lack of upkeep, but he could have sworn something slimy curled around his ankle at _least_ once. Maybe twice. Geralt checked each time, ready to slice away any offending tentacles, but found nothing. Only small chunks of stone and a few shattered porcelain pieces bobbing happily along the gentle tide.  
  
It was all _very_ eerie and he found himself talking through most of it. Occasionally humming to pass the time as they plodded carefully along.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
The Witcher swept the torch around the confined space every so often, illuminating any particularly ominous, pooling shadows. Keeping an eye out for anything suspicious, or useful. They were still holding hands, as well, although it occasionally slowed their progress when they came upon any large obstacles.  
  
As if on cue, a broken-down rocking chair floated by. Geralt used their linked hands to nudge Jaskier to the left a bit, creating a bridge with their arms under which it passed through without incident.  
  
“Ger- _alt_.”  
  
“What, Jaskier?”  
  
“Do you remember when you told me you loved me? You know, when I had a knife to your chest?”  
  
Geralt paused long enough to give him a _look_. “No. Remind me.”  
  
“Ha- _bloody_ -ha. It’s just, you haven’t said it since then. Yennefer said true love broke our curse. That we’re _soulmates_. But the only thing that’s really changed since then is...” he paused, trying to think of a polite term. “our...uh, _horizontal refreshments_.”  
  
“Our what?”  
  
“You _know_. Our bandicooting? Bone-honing?” Geralt quirked a brow, which only encouraged the smaller man. “Corking the onion? Dancing the goat’s _jig_? A bit of in-out, in-out, in-out - “  
  
An exasperated groan. “How many fucking sex-specific euphemisms do you know?”  
  
“Oh, _plenty_. Do you want to hear more? Let’s see...squat-jumping in the cucumber patch. Ah...planting the parsnip? Locking legs and swapping grav - “  
  
“Gods. Okay. Sorry I asked.” Geralt shook his head, though beneath the torch’s flickering light, a terribly amused smile was on his face, clear as day. Jaskier felt a small swell in his chest at the sight of it. “Why are they all about food?”  
  
“Because I’m _hungry_ , Geralt!” Jaskier exclaimed, laughing - and subsequently interrupting himself with a small, startled noise when he nearly tripped on a stray wicker basket. That brought him back to reality, to the reason he’d initiated what had turned out to be a very _impolite_ conversation. “Anyway, I want to know...we haven’t really _talked_ about whether or not - if you really _believe_ in all that? That we’re...”  
  
“Soulmates?” Geralt grunted, taking a moment to consider the question. When he answered it was short. Honest. He didn’t believe in destiny or fate but Jaskier did, enjoyed fantasizing about such romantic ideals to occasionally ridiculous extremes. “I don’t know.”  
  
Disappointment colored the other man’s face, then, and Geralt cursed softly, trying once more to express how he felt. “But I love you, Jaskier. _Have_ loved you. For a long time, I think. It felt...wrong. Being without you.” He decided not to mention his current internal struggle, the way Jaskier’s mere presence left him feeling hopelessly distracted. Endangering them both.  
  
The bard was quiet for a moment, staring down at the ripples in the water as they moved. Eventually he turned back to Geralt, features incredibly soft and bathed in pleasant hues of yellow and orange, and the Witcher didn’t need him to return the sentiment to know that he felt the same.  
  
“That’s all that matters, then, isn’t it?”  
  
“Yeah.”  
  
They continued on in comfortable silence, listening to the steady drip of water leaking in through a crack in the wall. The serene moment didn’t last long, however, as they rounded a corner and came upon a large doorway, barricaded by massive blocks of stone that had fallen from the ceiling. If he squinted past them, Jaskier thought he could make out bookshelves. An armchair and a desk that was missing a leg. And more water, reaching their thighs, at least.  
  
“Yikes. Some sort of...creepy, water-logged library, perhaps?”  
  
He thought he saw a pale, bluish figure through the cracks and squeaked, guiding Geralt’s hand to shed some light on the room but finding nothing. Only a slight disturbance beneath the water, a few bubbles floating to the surface.  
  
Geralt passed him the torch, grunting with effort as he started removing the boulders. Water spilled out in a rush, sending waves of partially-dissolved scrolls, stray papers, and overturned books cascading out into the hall. Jaskier knelt down and snatched one up before it could follow its friends, peering at the script but finding the ink had bled terribly, leaving behind large, black splotches in place of words.  
  
He discarded it and once the path had been cleared, trailed carefully behind Geralt as he entered the room. It _was_ a library, or had been at some point. The water was back to a comfortable level, only reaching their ankles, and there was a distinct lack of any figures, ghostly or otherwise.  
  
“Guess we’d better get reading.” Geralt grumbled, wading over to the shelves as Jaskier secured the torch in a metal ring on the wall.  
  
“Ah, wonderful. I’m starting to sense a theme here - ‘make everything as bloody difficult as possible for - ‘“  
  
A strange numbness, followed by a sharp, itchy pain in Jaskier’s back had his voice faltering in his throat and he braced himself on the desk, ignoring the way porous wood creaked beneath his touch.  
  
“Jaskier?”  
  
Geralt was at his side in an instant, placing a bundle of documents on the desk and running a hand along his back. Jaskier shied away from the touch, gritting his teeth as another spike of pain scorched a hot trail along his spine, licking at his side as it went.  
  
“ _Jaskier_. What is it?” A pause. “Annika?”  
  
Jaskier gave a tight nod, whimpering as the pain slowly left him until there was nothing but a dull, throbbing ache in its place, the muscles in his back and sides tightening and flexing against a sudden, inexplicable cramp.  
  
“Fuh- _fuck me sideways_.” Jaskier gasped after steadying himself on Geralt’s arm, trying to crane his neck to get a look at his back but ending up doing a jolting, shaky little twirl instead. “That’s _not_ good.”  
  
“Damn it. We need to hurry. _Fuck_. Here, uh, sit...” Geralt glanced around the room, spotting the old armchair. “down.”  
  
The leather had long since decayed, its previously brown color now colored black by large, wet spots. Jaskier shot him a look but the Witcher would have none of it, guiding him to sit, frowning at the way the other man cringed as his back made contact with the chair.  
  
“Hand me the - _things_.” Jaskier breathed after getting situated, shooing away Geralt’s concerned, hovering form and gesturing impatiently at the papers. Gold eyes lingered for a moment too long as he eventually complied, and Jaskier snatched the documents from his hand, giving in to a sudden burst of anger. “I’m fucking _fine_ , Geralt.”  
  
The Witcher’s frown remained as he stormed back over to the bookshelf, rummaging around for anything useful. He’d smelled it as soon as they walked in, heady and thick. Something was here. Something had _happened_ here, and the room was now blanketed by an ozone layer of deceit. It lingered like a sickness, tainting everything it touched.  
  
While occasionally stealing glances back at Jaskier’s painfully rigid posture, he rifled through countless scrolls and loose sheets of paper, chasing that putrid scent until he eventually came across a large, old tome.  
  
Upon reading the first few pages he felt his hackles rise, bristling as he skimmed through every disgusting, implicating detail.  
  
Jaskier’s ears perked at the low growl that filled the library and he set his own reading material down in his lap, watching Geralt’s jaw as it clenched, abruptly stopping the deep, vibrating sound.  
  
“Geralt, what did you find?”  
  
He approached the bard stiffly, handing him the book. There were a few loose papers tucked neatly inside, and Jaskier noticed one was scrunched up tightly in Geralt’s fist.  
  
As Jaskier read, he felt the blood drain from his face, cheeks stark white against the vivid blue of his eyes. A strange, sick feeling blossomed in the back of his throat.  
  
“This...”  
  
“I know.”  
  
The bard flipped through more pages - what had started as light reading now became deadly serious, finger trembling as it lingered on a single name at the top of the page.  
  
♞ ♞ ♞“These are all love letters to...” The finger flitted down to the bottom, landing on another name that made his skin crawl. “F-from Jannick’s father? It wasn’t Astrid he was after, it was...”  
  
Geralt’s nostrils flared. “Annika. Keep reading.”  
  
A few correspondences from Lord Jannick, paying off various witnesses to not speak a word of his father’s ‘condition.’ Evidence of his father offering untold amounts of gold for someone to frame Astrid. Other letters from a later date, inquiring about the whereabouts of a small girl with yellow hair and green eyes. A hired mercenary, paid to go after the girl. Jaskier read them all and as he absorbed the information an odd, somewhat cold feeling spread through him.  
  
When he was done he closed the book quickly, hands fluttering about its bindings, not sure where to go. “Bloody hell. Why didn’t she tell us? I mean, she lied. About all of it. Jannick paid everyone off, kept it a secret. Why wouldn’t she say anything?”  
  
The Witcher was perched at the edge of the desk now, staring off into the distance. “Maybe it has something to do with breaking the curse.”  
  
Jaskier nodded slowly, thoughtfully. That was where the guilt he felt came in - it wasn’t her inability to do anything because she’d been so young. It was because she blamed herself for all of it. Astrid. The other children who’d ended up mere casualties of a sick, twisted lord’s cruelty. ♞ ♞ ♞  
  
They didn’t have long to sit around and discuss it, however, as something had Geralt standing suddenly, glaring at the entrance. Jaskier clutched the book to his chest as in the distance, he heard the sound of heavy boots sloshing through water, moving quickly towards them.  
  
“They’ve found a way in.”  
  
Jaskier was still reeling, but when he heard the urgency in Geralt’s tone he straightened, glancing nervously at the other man. “What do we do?”  
  
“Do you trust me?”  
  
And the bard had the nerve to laugh at that, though the sound was made hollow by their recent, sick discovery. He took Geralt’s hand and pressed it to his lips.  
  
“Implicitly, Geralt. But you should know, I’m starting to absolutely _hate_ when you ask me that. It’s almost _always_ followed by - “  
  
He was interrupted by several men in uniforms bursting into the library, weapons drawn. Geralt stood protectively in front of Jaskier, reaching back and unsheathing his swords, allowing them to drop to the floor with a loud splash.  
  
“ - _trouble_.”


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geraaaaaalt what are you planning?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I _did_ want Jannick to say “it’s going to be lit” but alas, we must sometimes show restraint.

The guards were upon them instantly. After Geralt’s unprecedented surrender, they stormed the library - Jaskier held the book of Jannick’s secrets to his chest, protectively, for as long as he could but eventually it was torn away, thrown carelessly into the water on the floor.  
  
As their hands were secured behind their backs with sturdy rope, a couple of guards started patting them down in search of more weapons or anything they might have stolen. They took his lockpick and several other bits and bobs that had been swimming around in his pockets.  
  
Geralt’s eyes didn’t leave Jaskier’s for a long while - pure gold and reassuring, a lifeline amidst the flurry of violating hands and raucous, bellowing laughter. But then he growled suddenly, breaking eye contact as a hand slipped into one of the smaller pockets of his pants, rummaging around until it produced a tiny, folded slip of yellowed parchment.  
  
“Wot’s this, then?” The guard unfolded the paper, snorting meanly when he saw its contents. And Geralt’s glare was oh, _so_ dangerous and deadly. He jerked violently against his bonds in a failed attempt to snatch it away, piquing Jaskier’s curiosity because the other man usually placed very little value in material possessions. “A fuckin’ flower? Didn’t take you for the romantic type, _Witcher_.”  
  
Geralt’s words were a mechanical hiss, spoken through gritted teeth. “Put. It. _Back_.”  
  
With a smug smile the guard shrugged, letting the thing fall from his fingers to the floor. “ _Oops_.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened when he saw a small red rose had been pressed into it, delicate petals curling up off the slip of paper as they made contact with the water.  
  
Ignoring the cruel laughter that erupted as a result, Geralt got to his knees, twisting bound hands around at an uncomfortable-looking angle and plucking the flower free before it could slip beneath the surface. After that he straightened, the memento clutched in his hand, daring anyone to try and take it from him.  
  
Jaskier knew that rose, remembered its unusual, near-scarlet shade of red, from so long ago - the night he’d gotten irredeemably, _embarrassingly_ sloshed on honey wine. Geralt had slung him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes, rolling his eyes when Jaskier got a little too handsy on the way back to the inn. Making fun of him the next day because in his drunken stupor, he’d apparently, _repeatedly_ requested that the ‘pretty mountain stop _moving_ , please and thank you’ before promptly vomiting and passing out.  
  
He never imagined Geralt would keep the gift, let alone take the time to press it. Preserve it. Keep it in his _pocket_. The thought had him squirming excitedly, forgetting their currently dire situation and urging Geralt’s attention back to him.  
  
“Ger- _alt_! Is that my _rose_? After all these years? Aww, you _kept_ it, you sentimental basta - “  
  
A swift punch to the gut had Jaskier gagging on the word, hunching over. He shot a nasty look up at his attacker, and upon recognizing that blobby, bulbous nose - red and swollen, littered with broken capillaries from years of diving into the drink - barked a dry, wheezing laugh.  
  
“Oh, look. It’s the shite _guard_. Lovely to see your ugly mug again.”  
  
And indeed it was the man who had dragged them to the stables that very same morning. He looked even meaner now, a wicked sneer plastered across his face.  
  
“Shut up, bard.” Grubby fingers wound themselves into soft brown hair, roughly yanking Jaskier’s head up, grinning as he drew a low groan from the other man’s lips. “Not so cocky now, are you, shitling? Seems I was right about you bein’ a bloody thief.”  
  
“Seems I was right about you being a bloody _idiot_ , blindly following a corrupt arse like Jannick. Tell me - were you aware of his father’s disgusting preferences? Or are you just too _stupid_ to put two and two together?”  
  
That earned him another savage, rib-cracking blow.  
  
“Leave _off_.” Geralt snarled, cringing as the bard crumpled to his knees with a splash. It looked like he wanted to keep going, too. With valiant effort he righted himself, spitting a glob of bloody saliva into the murky water and preparing to deliver more scathing insults. The _idiot_ , didn’t realize he was ruining Geralt’s fucking plan, that it wouldn’t be much of a plan at all if he got himself killed with his _incessant_ \- “Jaskier. Shut the fuck up.”  
  
Jaskier hesitated, staring up at Geralt’s fierce, pleading expression. He knew he should listen to the man but found he could hardly contain his outrage, the intensity of it making his hands tremble from where they were trapped behind his back. Even if Jannick’s men were somehow oblivious to the truth, didn’t know what had really happened, the proof was there, _right there_ , floating less than a foot away. If they would only _listen_.  
  
Thankfully, any future attempts (and insults) died in his throat as a familiar voice shouted an order from behind the veritable wall of guards, drawing everyone’s attention away from the scuffle. Men parted quickly to reveal Lord Jannick, who had been passed Geralt’s silver sword and was balancing it in his hands, getting a good measure of its weight. Giving the Witcher a slick, shit-eating smile as he did.  
  
“Ah. I should have known it would come to this, Witcher. I’ve heard the ballads. You _always_ have to play the white knight.” Jannick stepped closer. He’d adjusted his grip on the sword, wielding it properly now and allowing its tip to draw an invisible line along Geralt’s clenched jaw, down to his neck. “But you’re not a knight, are you? You’re not even a man - just a hideous mutant. An abomination.” Cool, perilously sharp silver drew a few drops of blood, the cord-like muscles beneath it flexing instinctively. “A beast, who needs to be put down.”  
  
Geralt bared his teeth in a humorless grin, leaning into the blade rather than drawing back. A few drops turned into a steady red stream down his neck, disappearing into the collar of his shirt. “You’re not a man, either. Just a coward, who let an old pervert take your balls and hide them away in a little box.”  
  
The lord glared at him for a tense moment before retracting the sword. “Bring them to the dungeon. They should rest before tomorrow morning - it’s going to be a _scorchingly_ fun affair.”  
  
Upon hearing that, Jaskier started struggling again, shouting about the book that was starting to sink as water weighed it down. Trying desperately to wriggle free from the guard’s unyielding grip. Jannick peered at him as he would an insect, with disgust and disinterest. “Ugh. And gag the bard.”  
  
“Well, it’s not like I haven’t heard _that_ befo - hrk - _mmf_ \- “ Jaskier glowered at Shite Guard as he all-too-happily secured the gag. He continued trying to speak around the rough cloth, although all that came of it were guttural, nonsense noises.  
  
With that they were hauled to the dungeons, and none too gently. As they passed through the dank corridor, Jaskier saw Annika - her back was to them, and the brown sack she had on was ripped terribly.  
  
The guard stopped at the cell beside hers, and while he went to unlock it Jaskier tried getting a better look at the state of her. Fresh blood oozed from several angry lacerations along her spine, gleaming wetly beneath a single stripe of moonlight that poked through the tiny, barred window. The awful tingle in his back told him it _hurt_ , that she was conscious and in pain.  
  
She didn’t move, or even acknowledge their presence, however - Jaskier’s muffled cry of her name was lost as he was thrown bodily into his own cage, to the left of Geralt’s.  
  
Each cell was connected by more iron bars, rather than walls, and Jaskier could see Geralt standing by the door, watching the guard leave. Beyond that, he could vaguely see Annika, still crouched in the corner. Motionless.  
  
“Mmrfrlt.” Jaskier tried to vocalize the other man’s name as best he could, flailing gracelessly around until he was on his knees. He shuffled over to the bars that divided them - _surprisingly_ difficult without the use of his arms.  
  
The Witcher came quickly, squatting so their faces were level. “Jaskier. Are you okay?”  
  
“Mm-hm.”  
  
“Good. That’s good. You fucking idiot, I thought...” Geralt shook his head. “Do you still have your lockpick?”  
  
That was answered with a scathing glare, Jaskier wondering if the man had somehow forgotten the fact that he was currently bound and gagged. “Mm- _nm_.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
The bard _wanted_ to ask what Geralt had planned on doing with the lockpick anyway, considering their currently immobilized _arms_. Frustrated by not being able to talk, he tried using a series of facial expressions, grunts, and shrugs to convey that the gag needed to come off. Now, please, and by any means necessary.  
  
Geralt frowned. “What...what the fuck are you trying to say, Jaskier?” More gestures and noises - some very _rude_ \- had his frown deepening. “You want...what? Shag? Jaskier, now is not the - ”  
  
The bard slammed his head into the bars suddenly, rattling their conjoined cells. After he’d settled down he drew back slowly, contemptuously, and used his eyes to gesture down at the offending cloth.  
  
Realization dawned on Geralt and he snorted. “Oh.” A deep chuckle - Jaskier was thrilled that the Witcher was so obviously entertained by his suffering. “ _Gag_. Why didn’t you just say so?”  
  
If looks could kill, Geralt would be dead on the spot.  
  
“All right, all right. Turn around. Center your head between the bars.”  
  
Jaskier did as he was told, not sure what good that would do with Geralt’s arms also tied behind his back. He was about try and ask when he felt something warm ghost down the back of his neck as Geralt used his _teeth_ to start working on the knot.  
  
The process was _strangely_ intimate and he cursed his own libido for enjoying even a second of it, but the steady gusts of Geralt’s hot breath, ruffling his hair and sending constant chills up and down his spine, were just a little bit too much. He sat stiffly with the back of his head pressed up against the bars, desperately willing the blush that colored his cheeks to go away.  
  
Finally, the gag gave as Geralt undid the last knot - Jaskier spat the cloth out, taking grateful, decidedly underwhelming gasps of the musty dungeon air. He collapsed back against the bars when his bruised ribs creaked in protest.  
  
“Better?” Geralt’s voice was a low, enticing murmur in his ear.  
  
Jaskier whirled around, voice unnaturally high-pitched. “ _You_ would make an abysmal partner in a game of charades, Geralt. Shag? _Really_?” He took a deep, steadying breath, but when he spoke again he still sounded terribly flustered. And squeaky. “Now what on _earth_ is your plan? Because so far, it feels like we are just being thrust from one hellish situation to the next.”  
  
Geralt looked a little taken aback, but as he processed the bard’s embarrassment and bright red cheeks, his confusion evolved into an amused smirk. After taking a moment to appreciate his effect on Jaskier, he nodded in the direction of their eerily silent neighboring cell.  
  
“Annika’s going to help us escape. And tell us how to lift the curse.”  
  
Jaskier furrowed his brow, about to tell the other man that he was being ridiculously vague again when suddenly, at the mention of her name, the witch shifted just enough to shoot them a venomous glare. The sound of her distant, lethargic rustling had Jaskier pressing further into the bars, concern evident as he strained his eyes in an attempt to catch a glimpse of her face.  
  
“Why the fuck would I do that?” Her voice was a low, weak croak. Still impressively hateful, though. “Do you two _ever_ stop flirting?”  



	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for not posting this bad boy last night, in true scatterbrain fashion I used my palm to check that my electric stovetop was turned off and it was on high lmao but don’t worry, I’m fine!!!!!! Embarrassingly not the first time I’ve done that

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The idea of Jaskier, Geralt, and Annika sitting in three neighboring cells, unable to stop talking shit to each other while Jannick prepares to turn their asses to ashes, just kills me. Absolute degeneracy.

“Annika? Are you all right?” Jaskier shifted and squirmed to see over Geralt’s shoulder, though he could only make out the outline of the witch as she slunk slowly, laboriously to the edge of her cell.  
  
She let out an irritated hiss, finally moving into a small patch of moonlight. One skeletal hand was coiled tightly about an iron bar while the other remained awkwardly suspended in mid-air, held up only by the short chain of her cuffs. Her features were pinched by exhaustion and pain.  
  
“Not after sitting through that sickening display, no.” Annika glared at Geralt, who had turned slightly to face her, greeting her with an unsavory grimace. “Next time, leave the gag _on_.”  
  
Jaskier’s cheeks burned, though her insults seemed to be distinctly lacking their usual creativity and _bite_. Her eyes flickered back to him, taking in the way he was currently favoring his left side, hunched over what was starting to feel like a cracked rib. He watched her hand subconsciously move to touch her own abdomen.  
  
She was tracking his every move, he realized, though it was far less predatory than usual. Actually, it reminded him of the way Geralt stared at him when he thought he wasn’t looking.  
  
Jaskier decided he absolutely could not handle _two_ people silently glaring at him like that.  
  
“What did you imbeciles do to end up in here? No, wait, let me guess - the bard couldn’t control his incessantly wagging tongue.” Annika pressed her angular face up against the bars, leering at Jaskier. “Mouthed off to a guard, did you, precious? He got you good, at least. I felt it.”  
  
Jaskier let out a joyless laugh, sticking his nose through the bars of his own cell - ignoring Geralt’s exasperated look from where he sat between them. ”Oh, that’s just - and it’s still ‘the bard,’ is it? I think we’re on a bloody first name basis by now. It’s _Jaskier_. Say it with me - _Ja-ski-e -_ ”  
  
“I won’t do it. I hate your stupid name.”  
  
“ _You_ \- I’ll have you know, Jaskier is a lovely name and - gods, you are such a child! We’re trying to _help_ , you - ”  
  
“ _You’re_ the child.”  
  
“You’re _both_ children.” Geralt stood suddenly, having had enough, and approached Annika. The more they argued, the more juvenile their insults became, and of course _he_ was the one burdened with keeping things on track. “We trespassed in the east wing. Trying to clean up your fucking mess.”  
  
Jaskier had opened his mouth, ready to fire another volley back at the witch, but the mere thought of what they’d found in the library had his voice dying in his throat. And the way Annika furrowed her brow made him realize she still didn’t know that they knew.  
  
“Is this where I’m supposed to thank you for royally fucking me, Witcher?” Annika glowered up at the large man. “Jannick moved my execution up to tomorrow morning because of your meddling. Flogged me, too, to get under the bard’s skin. But no, you’re right - _thank you_. For making a bad situation exponentially worse.”  
  
“Annika...” Jaskier began, trailing off when he heard how wobbly his own voice was. After a moment, once he had gathered himself, he spoke again. This time his voice was soft and gentle. “We know. Wh-what really happened with Jannick’s father. I’m so sor - “  
  
She cut him off suddenly, razor-sharp and wounding. “Save it. I don’t need your pity. What I _need_ is for your beast on a leash to tell me why he thinks I would ever lift a finger to help you.”  
  
At that, Geralt grunted, extending his leg out towards her. “In my boot. There’s a slip of paper. Read it.”  
  
“Um, no, thanks.” Annika scowled at the massive, mud-caked boot hovering in front of her face. “Think I’ll pass on that.”  
  
“It has to do with your sister.”  
  
She paused. Eventually, curiosity got the better of her - saw her grudgingly fishing around in Geralt’s boot, producing a weathered piece of paper that had been folded several times, until it was very small.  
  
Jaskier wasn’t surprised that the Witcher had managed to sneak something by the guards, but did find himself preoccupied with wondering _what_ it could possibly be. When Geralt passed him that horrible book, back in the library, the bard _had_ noticed a crumpled sheet in his hand. At the time, he’d assumed it was just a loose-leaf victim of Geralt’s fury but now, if he squinted, he could vaguely see writing on it.  
  
Annika tensed, though Jaskier couldn’t see her face as she was now using the moonlight to read the mysterious document. “That’s bullshit. She would _never_ do that.”  
  
“What’s bullshit?” Jaskier, peering quizzically up at Geralt and finding the man’s face infuriatingly void of emotion. “Who wouldn’t have done what?”  
  
“It’s not bullshit.” Geralt, gruff and deadly serious. “Check the seal. The dates.”  
  
And she did, a single, rake-thin finger grazing the maroon wax seal at the bottom of the page. “You expect me to believe she threw away her chance at freedom - for _him_?” Her voice trembled.  
  
“Bloody hell - for _who_? Who are we _talking_ about?”  
  
Finally, Geralt turned to Jaskier and described what had been in the letter. It was a guard’s report to Jannick’s father, detailing Astrid’s attempted escape. Lord Jannick, just a child at the time, was wandering the keep in search of a midnight snack and had been the first to find her. Upon seeing the bloody, wild-eyed witch he naturally alerted the guards, tried to _stop_ her, but she overpowered him and took him hostage.  
  
What mattered, Jaskier realized, was that when it came down to it, she couldn’t bring herself to harm him.  
  
“The guards took advantage of her merciful nature. Threw her back in the dungeon. She was executed the next day.” Geralt concluded, a grim look on his face.  
  
“She should have _killed_ him.” Annika ripped up the report and tossed the pieces into Geralt’s cell. With her face now back in the light, Jaskier saw tears carving twin paths down her grime-covered cheeks. “He’s a monster. How could she choose that bastard over me? I was waiting. For _years_ I waited, in that shitty fucking cave.”  
  
Geralt sighed, and Jaskier was distracted by how beautiful he looked in that moment. He oft forgot - it was easy to, with all of their lighthearted teasing and yes, _flirting_ \- how wise the older man was. How much he’d seen. His demeanor was instructive, wild white hair illuminated by slivers of pale moonlight as he now sat with his back against the wall, speaking calmly to the woman who had tried to kill him.  
  
And all the bard could do was watch, open-mouthed. Smitten as a kitten.  
  
“It was the right choice. The person he became is irrelevant - he was a child.”  
  
Annika rounded angrily on the Witcher. “ _I_ was a child. I _needed_ her.” In the heat of the moment she had managed to stand, aggravating her injuries - as a result, Jaskier let out a low hiss, drawing her attention to him. When she saw him doubled over she stopped, eyes wide, before carefully sitting back down.  
  
“Perhaps.” Geralt’s stern gaze didn’t leave her, and it took everything in him to not go to Jaskier’s aid. “Yet here you are, faced with a similar decision. You can’t know Jannick’s son will turn out like him - and if the curse remains, he’ll die. What will it be?”  
  
Annika was silent for a long time, and neither man pressed her for an answer. It was long enough for the moon’s position to change again, leaving them in cool blue darkness - Jaskier could still make out their faces, their expressions, but only just.  
  
When she did speak again the words came quickly, as though they pained her and she wanted them out as soon as possible. Jaskier could feel all of the rage and guilt pouring off of her, but as it had been since the moment they’d been tossed into cells alongside her, the blood-lust was tempered. Restrained, where it had once been overpowering.  
  
“The mavka can be dispelled by tossing a particular stone into the water. Any body of water, really, though I’m sure she’d prefer a river or lake. Jannick confiscated the thing when he took me in, the prick.” She breathed out slowly through her nose, drawing her legs up to her chest. “That _should_ lift the curse.” Geralt gave her a look. “What? You can’t expect me to remember every little detail.”  
  
Jaskier restrained himself from making fun, because her words implied that she’d cast so many curses she couldn’t bloody well keep them straight - as if hearing his thoughts, she suddenly looked at him, _really_ looked at him and he could have sworn he saw the ghost of a smile dance across her terribly chapped lips.  
  
“I was _young_. But I do know it needs to go back in the water, and by my hand. Willingly. Ask your bard - I’m not lying.”  
  
Geralt looked down at Jaskier as though he were a human lie detector - and he sort of was because in that moment, he somehow knew she was telling the truth. He gave the other man an affirmative little nod.  
  
“Fuck. What a pain in the ass.” He shook his head, brows knitted together in thought. The witch’s uncertainty was not very reassuring. ”Do you know where he put the stone?”  
  
Annika was now clinging to the bars with both hands. “Are you stupid? You _do_ realize I’m still in these, right?” A jangle as she gave her dimeritium cuffs a shake to prove her point. “There’s not much point in discussing hypotheticals while we’re hopelessly incarcerated.”  
  
“Oh. Right. There’s a crack in them. They don’t work.” Jaskier and Annika both looked up at Geralt in disbelief, although it had nothing to do with their connection. Upon noticing their gaping mouths, the Witcher had the nerve to smirk. “I noticed it when you went to strangle _my_ bard, earlier today.”  
  
Annika recovered from the shock of the revelation first, trying a spell with her hands and huffing a sigh when nothing came of it. “I’m running on fumes. I’ll need something potent, like...” Her unsettling gaze settled upon Jaskier and she gave him a wicked grin. “his eyes, maybe.”  
  
“No. _No_. Absolutely not - Geralt, tell her!”  
  
Geralt snorted. “It doesn’t work like that, Jaskier.” He turned back to Annika. “What do you mean by potent?”  
  
“Feainnewedd, for example. Or some sort of sacrifice. The more valuable, the better. I could just eat the bard entirely, but that might take awhile.”  
  
The squeak that drew from Jaskier had her grin widening, and he found he absolutely _detested_ how much joy she got from making him squirm. “ _Bloody insane witch._ ”  
  
Geralt frowned, thinking something over for a moment before turning around and showing Annika the small, crumpled object clutched in his palm.  
  
“A mummified _rose_? I don’t think you - “  
  
“It’s, uh...” Geralt ground his teeth as he spoke, reluctantly jerking his head at Jaskier. “Special.”  
  
“Ah.” Annika gingerly tore off one of its petals with her teeth, making a face as she chewed and swallowed. After that, she passed the remainder of it back to Geralt, who snatched it back alarmingly fast. “ _Ugh_. It tastes of...devotion. Infatuation. _Disgusting_. But I guess it will do.”  
  
She closed her eyes, then, and started chanting. The effect was immediate - their cell doors swung open simultaneously, and Jaskier felt his bindings untie themselves, dropping to the disgusting floor with a wet splat. He saw Geralt’s do the same, as well as Annika’s cuffs.  
  
Without a thought he found himself sprinting out of his cell into Geralt’s, about to fling himself at the other man when sudden pain in his newly-freed arms had him stopping short, cursing and flailing around to coax blood back into them.  
  
“ _Ow_ \- owowow - “ Jaskier paused when he saw Geralt curiously watching him as he danced around. “Pins and needles, _Geralt_. My bloody arms fell asleep.”  
  
Warm hands were on him then, rubbing up and down, soothing the agonizing tingle in his limbs. Jaskier found his eyes rolling back into his head, making a small, delighted sound at the instant relief Geralt’s touch brought him.  
  
As the witch gathered herself, Geralt leaned in close, lips brushing Jaskier’s ear as he murmured, “For what it’s worth, I like your name.”  
  
Jaskier chuckled, drawing back and gazing up into the other man’s eyes. “I like yours, too. Though I’d like it even _more_ if I could pepper in something else every now and then.” A groan, Geralt muttering something along the lines of ‘not this again.’ “Just _one_ nickname, Geralt, that’s all I ask. How about...my rosebud?”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Annika straightened before he could answer, shooting them a nasty look. “Are you two fucking done?” 

♜ ♖

Annika told them she could feel the stone calling to her, emanating from somewhere near the main hall. Once they’d gathered themselves they set off to retrieve it, creeping through the dungeon with Geralt leading the way, using his keen senses to detect any of Jannick’s men.  
  
As they came upon the stairs leading out of the dungeon, Annika got a little chatty.  
  
“How did you know I’d end up helping you, Witcher? A rather bold assumption.”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
“You’re lying. You wouldn’t risk the life of twinkle toes back there on a whim like that.”  
  
“It’s _Jaskier_!”  
  
Geralt glared at them, stopping halfway up the steps. “Will you lower your _fucking_ voices?” He reached into his boot, then - Jaskier made a mental note to ask just how many miscellaneous objects he kept in there - and pulled out a small knife. “I didn’t know. I gave you one last chance, and you had the good fucking sense to take it.”  
  
“ _There_ it is. You would have left me to die otherwise. Jannick and the rest, too.” Annika simpered, nodding to Jaskier. “All to keep him safe. Not so virtuous after all, are you, Geralt of Rivia?”  
  
The Witcher grunted, continuing up the stairs. “Never claimed to be.” He noticed Jaskier idling behind them, taken aback by the whole exchange. By the troublesome idea of Geralt making such a cruel choice, all because of him. The thought left a bad taste in his mouth. “Come on, ‘ _twinkle toes_.’”  
  
“Bite me, Geralt.” Jaskier hissed, stomping up after them.  
  
When they reached the top, Annika passed her hand over the door, unlocking it. Before they could exit the dungeon, however, Geralt stopped, gesturing to a guard who was posted a few paces to the left of the door.  
  
He was reading something, the light of his torch a beacon as the rest of the keep remained cloaked in heavy darkness.  
  
It was necessary to pass him to get to the main hall, however. Sidling close to the wall, carefully picking along through the shadows, they nearly made it by without incident.  
  
As they went to turn the corner, however, an awkward step over a loose stone had Annika losing her footing. It would have been fine, but the sudden movements she made to right herself jostled the tender wounds in her back - despite her best efforts she lurched forward, releasing a strangled, keening cry.  
  
A hand flew to her mouth, the other gripping the wall for support, but the damage had already been done; at the sudden disturbance the guard jolted upright and saw them, immediately slamming the book closed and reaching for his weapon.  
  
It was then that Jaskier recognized his chosen reading material, the sight of it making his skin crawl. It was thicker, now - its pages having crinkled and dried awkwardly after being submerged in water for too long. The incriminating text from Jannick’s abandoned library.  
  
Geralt was tense, muscles coiled and ready to use brute force if necessary, but when Jaskier placed a hand on his arm he paused. And after a moment, realized the guard hadn’t moved and was now staring at them with an indecipherable expression.  
  
There was a long, uneasy moment where the three of them prepared to fight or flee as the guard made his decision. After what felt like an _eternity_ he slowly, wordlessly released the hilt of his blade, reopened the book, and allowed them to scurry along without a peep.


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all, I’m road trippin’ to Montreal with some pals which is always a recipe for disaster, so I’m going to post the next update in two days when I get back! hehe I hope you have a lovely weekend :)
> 
> Please check out the wonderful amazing edit that the absolute angel @kickassfu made for this fic, I’m going to include it in the work as soon as I figure out how to do that lmao but until then, here is the link!!!!!! : https://kickassfu.tumblr.com/post/190956916876/gods-how-vile-yanking-awhat-is-this-again

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Why tf didn’t I make Annika a bard just to use the phrase “two bards with one stone”

“Step on my foot again, bard, and it’ll be the last thing you do.”  
  
“Oh, merciful - it’s not _my_ fault you’ve got bloody boats attached to your ankles, is it?” Jaskier hissed at Annika’s back. She was trailing a few paces ahead of him - and yes, maybe he’d accidentally tread on her heel more than once, but he’d never own up to it with _that_ attitude.  
  
“At least I don’t have a motor attached to my _mouth_.”  
  
They’d made it to the main hall, after a painstakingly long journey through the compound - in the yard, as the sky lightened fractionally with each passing minute, they had witnessed some of Jannick’s men setting up a large wooden stake in preparation for Annika’s execution. Eerie, but ultimately a good sign because it meant their escape had gone unnoticed. So far.  
  
Unfortunately, there were more men patrolling this area of the keep - Jannick’s quarters were nearby, just off the main hall - which resulted in quite a bit of hustling and shuffling around as they tried to avoid any unpleasant encounters. Geralt could easily neutralize any immediate threats, but preferred to keep their presence relatively unknown, at least until they’d located the mavka’s stone.  
  
_Relatively_ being the key word, with the full-grown adults behind him, bickering the whole way like a couple of insufferable brats.  
  
“Where the fuck is this thing?” Geralt growled, glaring down what felt like the hundredth dark, dank hallway they’d encountered since getting past the guards stationed at the hall’s entrance.  
  
“Somewhere down below. We need go deeper.” Annika replied, peeking carefully around the corner and spotting the first step of a staircase leading down. “There.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Through several more hallways, down _several_ more flights of stairs, the odd trio eventually came upon a massive stone doorway. It was cracked slightly, revealing a sliver of sparkling gold light that only just breached the darkness of the corridor they’d found themselves in.  
  
Geralt sniffed the air experimentally, searching for any malicious presences that might be lurking behind the stone impediment. Satisfied, he grunted and tugged the door open - that blinding brightness immediately flooded into the hallway, and it took them all a moment to adjust to the sudden change in atmosphere.  
  
When they did, they realized they were standing in the doorway of the keep’s massive treasure room. A chandelier provided light above, illuminating the scene. Paintings, marble statuettes, countless chests and piles of gold among other glittering jewels.  
  
Their quiet revelry was abruptly interrupted by Jaskier letting out an ecstatic cry, vaulting himself over a chest and sprinting to the far corner of the room. He disturbed several piles of gold along the way, running through them with considerable difficulty until he hunched over the reason behind his sudden outburst.  
  
“Oh, my sweet, my _precious_ little darling - I thought I’d _lost_ you, you minx, yet here you are. Waiting for me. I can’t believe you waited, you wonderful, _loyal_ \- ” Jaskier’s words grew distant and dreamy as he nuzzled the thing to his cheek, though from where they still stood in the doorway, neither the witch nor the Witcher could see what had put that _horribly_ lovesick expression on his face. Geralt had a pretty good fucking idea, though. “It must be fate - the stars have aligned for this very moment, this blessed reunion.”  
  
“What the fuck is he on about?” Annika asked, looking mildly disgusted. Jaskier turned, then, and she saw what was cradled so lovingly in his arms. And though they were previously mortal enemies, and she had only just _tentatively_ overcome her desire to murder the Witcher, she and Geralt shared a rare moment of impressive synchronicity when they both groaned and rolled their eyes at the exact same time. “Should have seen that coming. Oh, for fuck’s sake - is he _kissing_ it?”  
  
“Yep.”  
  
“Fucking idiot.”  
  
“I’ll give you that.”  
  
Indeed Jaskier was, oblivious to the others’ palpable disdain as he pressed small, delicate little pecks along the wooden surface of his reclaimed lute, experimentally plucking her strings, cooing as one would to a newborn infant.  
  
As the bard continued murmuring sweet nothings to a non-sentient wooden instrument, Geralt surveyed the room. It wasn’t unusual for a keep as old as this to have such an extensive collection of gold, treasure, various antiquities and valuables, but the way it was splayed in piles, chests overflowing with gems and jewelry, was reminiscent of a bandit’s hoard. Fitting for a family as rotten as Jannick’s.  
  
He and Annika picked around, and he realized Jannick had added his swords to the collection. Geralt plucked them from the weapons rack and checked them over for damage before sheathing them on his back, relishing in the soft, familiar _shick_ of metal sliding into leather. Though not nearly as blatantly euphoric as Jaskier, Geralt allowed himself a moment to enjoy the secure, satisfying feeling of being armed.  
  
“Ah. Here it is.” Annika had stopped before a marble stand, atop which sat a small box lined with deep purple velvet. The warm gold tones that bathed the room didn’t touch the stone inside, however, and its color remained dark, flecks of blue emitting a soft, cool glow.  
  
Jaskier’s head poked out from where he’d been rummaging through a gold chest. There was a sapphire circlet perched precariously on his head, and several rings on his fingers, inlaid with rubies, emeralds, and diamonds. When he saw the stone, he frowned, though the seriousness of his expression was canceled out by how ridiculously gaudy he looked.  
  
“That’s the stone from your memory, isn’t it? You found it, the night they took your sister.”  
  
Annika nodded, taking the stone in her hand, clutching it to her chest. “She’s been with me since. The mavka, I mean. She’s a dear friend.”  
  
“Of _course_ she is.” Jaskier replied sarcastically. Content with the amount of jewels currently draped upon his body, he took a seat on a pile of gold and started strumming his lute.  
  
Geralt was about to say that they should leave, _now_ , and get this over with, but when he saw the bard’s delighted expression - it had become a rarity, as of late, with all of the mayhem and chaos - he paused and instead joined Annika where she had taken a post at the other end of the room, admiring the stone in her hand. They could take one moment to relish in this small victory, at least.  
  
Leaning with his back against the wall, arms crossed over his chest, he watched as Jaskier somehow managed to play a pleasant, gentle tune despite the numerous rings that should have otherwise served as an impediment.  
  
After a moment, Annika pocketed the stone. Following Geralt’s gaze to the bard before she spoke.  
  
“You know, he’s different from anyone I’ve ever met. It was the strangest thing, being in his head.”  
  
“Hm.” As Geralt considered that, his eyes betrayed what his stony face did not - the hint of a smile, amused and affectionate. “I can’t begin to imagine what it’s like in there.”  
  
Annika snorted. “Not like _that_. Well, yes, it was a nightmare. So much fucking singing. And surprisingly, a _lot_ more talking, which leads me to believe he exhibits some semblance of self-control every time he opens his bloody mouth.” A sigh as she momentarily relived the nonstop stream of verbal vomit that was Jaskier’s mind. “But aside from that, he is a rare find.”  
  
“How do you mean?”  
  
“Don’t play coy. I’m _sure_ you know what I mean. People like us, we see the world as it is - different shades of evil. Greater, lesser. But evil all around.” She sighed again, frowning. “ _He_ finds good in everything. Brightens up the shadows. It’s bothersome, but...there aren’t many people like that left in this hellscape.”  
  
She looked serious now, turning to Geralt. Their voices were low as they spoke, words traveling under the current of Jaskier’s impromptu melody. “You should cherish that quality while you can. Keep him close - and _safe_. I don’t need to tell you that he’s also prone to complete buffoonery.”  
  
“That he is.” Geralt mused, looking thoughtful but not saying what was really on his mind - that ever since their horrifying experience in the swamp, when he’d felt the bard’s life force leaving him as quickly as the blood soaking his shirt, had been faced with the inherent _vulnerability_ that came with human mortality, he knew he’d die before letting anything like that happen to the other man again.  
  
He couldn’t have known then that Jaskier felt very much the same.  
  
Jaskier stopped playing suddenly, squinting suspiciously at them from the other side of the room. The gold reflected warmly on his face. “ _Gods_ , you two are looking so incredibly sinister over there. What could you possibly be discussing - the most effective ways to _glare_? Or, wait, I know - you’re comparing notes on how best to make me feel uncomfortable.”  
  
Without a word, Geralt grunted and pushed himself up off the wall, stalking over to Jaskier and pulling him up by the collar of his shirt. The heaping piles of gold and treasure that had served as his tiny throne shifted, a few jewels spilling out onto the stone floor.  
  
“Enough fun. Let’s get this over with - there’s a river nearby, south of the keep.”  
  
Before they made to leave, however, Geralt - who couldn’t get Annika’s thinly-veiled warning out of his head - placed a calloused hand on Jaskier’s neck, drawing him in for a kiss.  
  
The bard looked confused for a moment, gripping his lute between them as he searched Geralt’s face for the _reason_ behind this delightful surprise, but quickly decided he didn’t care about reasons, promptly deepening the kiss. The circlet slipped and fell as he tilted his head to get a better angle, making a soft noise as Geralt’s touch wandered down, large hands settling in c-shapes on either side of his narrow waist and drawing him closer. The movement - and the buckle of Geralt’s belt inadvertently plucking a string - elicited a single high chord from the instrument that separated them.  
  
In the back of his mind, Jaskier was waiting for the eternally-disgusted witch to say something sardonic and ruin the mood. When she didn’t, he frowned into Geralt’s mouth, and was about to tell her he preferred her insults over contemptuous _silence_ when an aborted cry rang out through the room, cut off by the sounds of a scuffle. He felt a burst of fear, Annika’s and his own - Geralt was immediately on high alert, the moment the putrid, familiar scent hit him. With one hand gripping Jaskier’s elbow to keep him sheltered behind his back, he reached for his sword.  
  
Jannick was standing in the doorway. One large, meaty hand fisted in the tattered remains of Annika’s prisoner garb, fingers digging cruelly into the wounds on her back. In his other hand he held a knife to her throat.  
  
“That’s where love leaves you, eh, Witcher? Blind and distracted. Weak. You should have seen me coming. _Pathetic_.”  
  
Geralt lurched forward but stopped as Jannick used the blade to slice a short, shallow cut along Annika’s neck, blood instantly cascading out, staining pale skin and the coarse, plain brown material of her frock. She choked and spluttered, knees giving out, though Jannick’s merciless grip kept her standing.  
  
“ _Stop_.” Geralt snarled at the lord, shoving Jaskier back as soon as he started running to her aid. “We’re on our way to lift the curse. Let the witch go, and your family will live.”  
  
“Ah, ah. You won’t fool me so easily. I haven’t punctured a vein yet, but I will if you take another step.” He nodded to Jaskier, who was clutching his own throat as he tried getting past the immovable wall created by Geralt’s arm, eyes wide and terrified. Guards filled the space behind the lord, swords and crossbows drawn. “By all means, try it - I’m eager to test out this little connection. See if I can’t kill two birds with one stone.”  



	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was very upset with myself for not writing a ballroom brawl and thought a treasure room......throw-down??,,..... would be just as fun 
> 
> Apologies for gratuitous verbal sparring and cheesy one-liners hahaha, I’m sleep-silly and things are gettin a lil serious next chapter

Geralt seethed, watching Jannick as the man teased the tip of the blade into Annika’s neck, a wicked grin twisting his face into something inhuman.  
  
The woman at his mercy burbled and snarled, her hands clawing at the strong arms that held her in place, the damage made clear by the pink-red froth staining her pale lips as she struggled. She got a good scratch on him, drawing a long, red line starting at his eyebrow and ending just below his chin, but the lord didn’t flinch even as small drops of blood bubbled forth from the thin cut, eventually creating a gruesome red mask on that side of his face.  
  
“What will it be, Witcher?” Jannick shouted above the din of Annika’s frantic, animalistic cries, his eyes not leaving Geralt’s heaving form. Behind him, countless guards had their weapons at the ready.  
  
As soon as he saw the way the bastard’s blade danced playfully around Annika’s most vital veins, Geralt sighed, dropping his sword with an irritated “fuck.”  
  
Jannick looked somewhat dissatisfied, then, and allowed his cruel gaze to settle on Jaskier, who had fallen to his knees beside Geralt’s discarded sword, hands scrabbling wildly and leaving claw marks down his neck.  
  
“Be a dear and kick it over here, bard.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ you very much.” Jaskier gurgled back, gasping with relief as Jannick relented his horrific exploration of the area around Annika’s jugular and instead settled the blade just above her collarbone, ready to deliver a killing blow at a moment’s notice.  
  
“I must say, I did expect a bit more of a fight from the famed White Wolf.” Out of the corner of his eye, as the lord spoke, Jaskier saw Geralt’s hand move almost imperceptibly towards his belt.  
  
“I’ve heard stories of Witchers facing down entire armies of men - killing machines, not influenced by trivialities like love or hate. I’d always fancied meeting one, you know.” Jannick sighed, his tone calm and casual despite the situation. Geralt’s face quickly changed from irritation to revulsion, and he scoffed as the lord continued describing his misplaced revelry. “Ever since I was a boy. But what a _disappointment_ you turned out to be. Enslaved by the very emotions you’re supposed to lack - by a worthless human whose fate was determined the moment he saw fit to consort with a mutant.”  
  
“Wh - _enslaved_? Okay, I get that this is your moment - your big, evil speech or whatever - and that’s... _fine_ , I guess. But how dramatic can you _get_?” Jaskier had managed to compose himself, apparently, though his voice rasped terribly. “Besides, all that implies that he actually _listens_ to a bloody word I say. He’s very independent. Also insufferably stubborn, and - oh...right. Okay. _Shut the fuck up, Jaskier_.”  
  
The last part was spoken in a spiteful little grumble, a mockery of Geralt’s voice and favorite phrase. Lowering with each syllable as the bard realized that now was definitely not the time, that there were several silver bolts primed and ready to turn them into pincushions.  
  
Geralt let out a low growl, keeping Jannick’s attention on his face rather than his hands. And off Jaskier, who was properly annoyed at having his relationship with the other man spoken of in such a degrading manner. An annoyed Jaskier always spelled trouble, he’d come to realize. “Sorry to burst your bubble.”  
  
At that, Jannick laughed, giving Annika a little shake when her eyes started flickering dangerously back into her head. “Ah, well. I guess it can’t be helped. Though the very thought of a beast with the face of a man, roaming town to town, ploughing whores and slaying monsters - it’s quite exciting, is it not?”  
  
Geralt snorted at that. “You’re confusing reality with a sick wet dream. Let me guess - you think we eat newborns, too? Strangle puppies in our free time? You’ll forgive me if I’m out of the loop. I don’t keep up with petty human gossip.”  
  
As he spoke he slowly, carefully inched up, kicking the sword towards Jannick after Jaskier had refused. One of his crossbow-wielding guards scurried forward and snatched it. “And really, I could give a shit. Boyhood fantasies and cautionary tales are just that. This _curse_ is real, and killing that woman will seal the fate of your entire bloodline.” Jannick grimaced at that, which only encouraged Geralt, his scowl evolving into a taunting smirk. “Even a flaccid prick like you fears extinction. The destruction of your precious legacy.”  
  
Jannick’s amusement evaporated instantaneously. “An eye for an eye, Witcher. I’m afraid it’s out of my hands. Blood must be repaid with blood.” And oh, Jaskier was _so_ tired of hearing that phrase, he simply could not hold back his annoyed groan, standing and using Geralt’s arm for support. “She’s wreaked more havoc on this keep than you know. I’ll find another way to lift this foul curse - one that doesn’t involve allowing the one responsible to prance off into the sunset, unharmed. Now, I _was_ hoping you’d make it to the grand finale, but your refusal to act as anything more than an uncivilized beast has exhausted me. It’s time for you to die.”  
  
Jaskier, who _had_ been listening - _not_ just mimicking Jannick under his breath - rolled his eyes and started to say “wow, such a shame, so sorry to miss it - “ but upon hearing the last sentence cut himself off with a “wait, _what_?”  
  
And Geralt’s wandering hand had found _something_ useful, apparently - as Jannick motioned for the men with crossbows to line up at the large entrance, the bard vaguely heard the sound of the Witcher’s thumb popping a cork off a bottle behind his back. The lord was behind his men, now, dragging Annika along with him.  
  
Geralt’s voice was low in Jaskier’s ear. “Get down on my signal, Jaskier.” The bard squeaked, gulped, and nodded quickly.  
  
“So long, Witcher. I’m sorry it had to be this way.” Half the guards trailed behind Jannick, escorting him to the yard, and before he left he turned to one of the men staying behind. Keeping his eye on Geralt and his knife on Annika as he did. “Fill them with silver bolts and bring me their remains. I want that fearsome scowl adorning my gates until the crows pick it clean.”  
  
“Yes, my lord.”  
  
With Jannick gone, the guards readied their weapons, and Jaskier squirmed uncomfortably as he waited for...whatever Geralt’s signal was going to be. A bird call, maybe? Any day now.  
  
“All right, men. Steady.” The man Jannick had spoken to, possibly the head guard, lifted his arm.  
  
They took aim, and Jaskier shrank back, not liking the way that guard to the far left was pointing his weapon down a bit, at a _very_ delicate area. _Any_ fucking day now.  
  
“Geralt, with the _suspense_ , rea - “  
  
Jaskier was cut off as the head guard dropped his hand from where it had been hovering in the air. Geralt snarled “ _now_ , Jaskier” and shoved the bard to the side as all of the bolts were released from their barrels at the same time, whistling towards them.  
  
With a yelp, Jaskier used the momentum from Geralt’s push and threw himself to the ground, hiding behind a large chest, protectively clutching his lute - he poked his head out and watched as the Witcher released a large blast of energy at the incoming projectiles, sending them and the first row of guards flying back in a - well, a pretty hilarious heap in the doorway. A few bolts had made it through, one sticking out of Geralt’s calf and another embedding itself in a statue on the far side of the room, splitting its smiling marble face in half.  
  
The Witcher picked up his sword, which had been dropped by one of the men in all the chaos, and the guards quickly moved to gather themselves, some discarding their crossbows in favor of swords and spears. Their professionalism was most definitely a bit rattled by the sight of a large, hulking, _armed_ Witcher standing over them.  
  
As he yanked the bolt out of his leg with an annoyed grunt, the men behind the first line - who hadn’t been knocked back, had been just out of range - quickly drew their blades, readying themselves for a fight.  
  
Before they charged, Geralt turned to Jaskier, and the bard noticed his eyes were quickly losing their warm, striking gold color in favor of an inky black, dark red veins branching out across pale skin. “ _Stay_.”  
  
“Aha! Take that! It’s Witchering time, you - ack!” Jaskier ducked back behind the chest as one of the men recovered faster than expected and fired a bolt at his head, missing him by a hair. He continued muttering as he hid, of course. “ _Incredibly_ rude. I’m testing out catchphrases. I mean, Jannick gets a whole bloody _speech_ and you won’t let me have a single one-liner? What is _up_ with that?”  
  
“Shut up and stay low, Jaskier.” Geralt grunted - all he could see of the other man were a few brown hairs peeking out from behind the chest, bobbing up and down as he spoke.  
  
The Witcher kicked a guard who came at him with bone-shattering force, sending him careening into the wall. He’d had enough of trying to navigate this complicated, messy situation without the use of violence - though his blows weren’t meant to kill, just incapacitate; he could smell fear on these men. They were fighting for a lord who favored brutality over mercy, and he wouldn’t slay them simply because they’d ended up on the wrong side of the battle.  
  
Another sword came down on him and he used his own blade to block it, expertly twisting it out of his attacker’s hand and tossing it across the room before head-butting its owner. Several came at him at once and he signed again to blast them back, cringing in sympathy as one man screamed while clutching a shattered arm.  
  
In no time, the floor was littered with piles of groaning, wounded guards, splayed over chests and piles of jewels, some unconscious while others sported various broken bones.  
  
Jaskier was busy marveling at Geralt’s control and strength, strumming a few chords and murmuring a little tune about a man most _virile_ \- mostly to block out the increasingly terrified screams - when a large axe came at him from above. He shrieked and quickly slipped down until he was entirely on the floor, watching in horror - and going a bit cross-eyed - as the weapon buried itself in the chest where his head had been. Before he could call for Geralt, its owner yanked the axe out, winding back for another strike.  
  
The bard scrambled to his feet, raising his hands up in surrender as the guard tracked his movements around the chest, going left where Jaskier went right until they were both slowly circling the thing.  
  
A quick glance over to Geralt let him know he was currently otherwise occupied, snarling as the tip of a spear lodged itself in his shoulder. He grabbed it, pulling the man attached forward and vaulting him -  
  
Jaskier couldn’t watch any longer as his axe-wielding friend swung again, across the chest separating them. The bard nearly toppled over in his effort to dodge the blow.  
  
“Look, can’t we just _talk_ about this? You don’t really want to kill me - I’m not even armed! See?” He wiggled his fingers, keeping his hands in the air. “That kind of feels like an honor thing, at this poi - hey!“  
  
The third attempt aimed true as the guard had the sense to hop over the chest, swinging down on the bard. Jaskier just barely managed to pull his lute up to block the blow in time, though he immediately gasped as several strings were cut, his beloved making a horrible, dissonant cry as steel split her down the middle. He quickly stepped back, the axe still lodged in his instrument, and glared accusingly at the man.  
  
“No! You absolute - look what you’ve _done_! How _could_ you? Where’s the humanity? Oh, gods - I’m going to be sick, I can’t even _look_ \- ” Jaskier _might_ have shed a few tears as he pulled out the axe and chucked it away, hands fluttering over the damaged, split wood.  
  
The guard didn’t care about the heartbreak he’d caused, it seemed, and with his axe now sitting in a pile of gold a few paces away he lunged at Jaskier with his bare hands outstretched. In a rare moment of clarity - and blind _rage_ \- Jaskier wielded his poor, damaged lute by her neck and clobbered the man over the head with enough force to send him crashing heavily to the ground. Unconscious, thank the gods.  
  
Jaskier fell to his knees, cradling the lute in his arms, now in hysterics over the loss of his friend. “It’s okay, my love.” A hand brushed over the gaping wound, making a small sound as his fingers accidentally plucked one of the remaining chords. “Don’t try to speak - save your breath. I’ll fix you up, you’ll be good as new and together we’ll play such sweet, sweet - “  
  
“ _Jaskier_! You fucking idiot!”  
  
He looked up in time to see a guard charging at him - and then promptly collapsing at the bard’s feet as the hilt of the small axe Geralt had tossed whacked him in the back of his skull.  
  
From where he was crouched in the corner of the room, Jaskier realized that Geralt had taken out...nearly _all_ of the guards. Some had fled, when they noticed their numbers dwindling at such an alarming rate - the hand of one was creeping towards a discarded weapon and Geralt rolled his eyes, swiftly knocking him unconscious with a measured kick to the head.  
  
The Witcher stalked towards him, stepping over piles of bodies - all impressively alive, though they’d definitely require a _lot_ of healing - and going to grab Jaskier. When he saw what had tears spilling out of those crystal-clear blue eyes, he stopped abruptly, clearing his throat and looking a bit awkward. It was almost comical, considering he’d just laid waste to an entire squadron of men.  
  
“Oh - uh, I’m sorry. For your loss.”  
  
Jaskier hiccuped through a sob before wiping his nose and slipping the strap of the lute back over his head, refusing to leave her in this wretched keep.  
  
“She - she’s in a better place now. You know, it’s the funniest thing - I think I can feel her, watching over me. Saying, ‘Jaskier, _use_ this pain. Write the best damn ballad the world has ever - ‘“  
  
“You’re milking it.” Geralt hoisted the other man up by his arm. He sheathed his blade and wiped a stray tear from Jaskier’s cheek, shaking his head with a soft laugh that instantly made the room, the loss of his lute, the _violence_ feel so very far away. “You’ll be fine. We’ll patch her up, together. Now come. Let’s go save the fucking witch.”  
  
Jaskier huffed a sigh, and with Geralt’s hand in his they maneuvered their way through the aftermath and exited the treasure room, moving quickly through the empty halls as after the excitement and sadness and _heartache_ had faded, he became aware of a suffocating, nauseating fear. Annika’s fear. He smelled fire and ash, though they were nowhere near the yard.  
  
He tried to keep the tremor out of his voice. “Yes, yes. Let’s try and make this the last time.”


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh I typed this in the bath and scared myself...but I’m also terrified of deep water so that isn’t saying much

Annika glared at Lord Jannick as her hands and waist were secured to the stake with thick, sturdy rope. He was smiling, the blood from the cut on the left side of his face having caked and dried, cracking when he spoke.  
  
“Gaze upon the witch who cursed our house. Who cursed Valenves Keep, and the men within its walls. Who killed my father, my uncle, and countless other innocents. Just like her sister before her. A wicked witch, not worthy of the breath in her lungs.”  
  
Jannick turned to his men, who were circled around the scene. Their lord stood at the center, a flaming torch in his hand. With the other he pointed to Annika, who snarled and jerked against her bonds. The pain she felt at the movement paled in comparison to the jagged pieces of kindling digging into her bare feet, the impending burning that awaited her. The guards that called for her death, roused by Jannick’s speech as he dangled the fire in her face like a carrot on a stick.  
  
“This is not a woman - this is a _demon_. A monster. Watch how she froths at the mouth, like a feral beast.” With his free hand he took Annika’s chin and jerked it towards the crowd, laughing cruelly as she snapped at his fingers. “Justice is rightly served today.”  
  
A familiar feeling bubbled in the pit of her stomach as she glowered at the sea of mean, distorted faces before her. Men threw more kindling, one jagged piece grazing her exposed ankle.  
  
_Help_.  
  
Jannick tossed the torch, then, into the pile at her feet. The fire caught quickly, too quickly, and she screamed, watching in horror as it devoured shards of wood and hay, speeding towards her.  
  
_Please_.  
  
Everything was gradually ebbing away, the sounds and sights and smells, and she embraced the familiar, vaguely unpleasant tingle of dark magic that blossomed in the tips of her fingers, traveling through her, down to her toes.  
  
_What is it you **want**?_ a voice in her head asked, tantalizing, sickeningly sweet.  
  
Through the tunnel, the black creeping into her vision, she watched as the wall of bodies before her was blown apart, a few men flying impressively high in the air, like rag-dolls. A flash of steel, of black and white and too-bright teal, the tang of blood polluting crisp morning air.  
  
It didn’t matter. With the fire licking at her ankles, the pain and the scent of burning flesh now a distant memory, she saw only red, and craved only death. Destruction.  
  
_Kill them all_ , she replied before slipping under. _Every last one_.

♜ ♖

Geralt and Jaskier were sprinting across the yard when Jannick threw the torch. Annika was screaming, and Jaskier felt tears and smoke sting his eyes. As they approached, they could see Lord Jannick standing before the fire. His men created a ring around her, and Geralt noticed a small boy standing a few paces from the lord, occasionally trying to totter over to him. Most likely Jannick’s son. Typical, that he’d expose him to such an unjust, brutal execution.  
  
As soon as they were close enough Geralt signed at the tight-knit ring surrounding the burning witch, simultaneously blowing several men away, creating a hole in the circle and putting the fire out. Annika’s cries cut off suddenly, her head lolling to the side.  
  
Jannick was caught in the blast, the sudden telekinetic force tossing him into the air. He landed inches from the flames, a heap of robes and furs.  
  
“Quick, untie her. We’re getting the fuck out of here.” Geralt hissed at Jaskier, brandishing his blade at the guards who moved to stop them, prepared to expend more energy and knock them back again if need be.  
  
The bard nodded quickly, hurrying over to the witch. Stopping suddenly when he noticed the state she was in.  
  
“Geralt, s-something’s happening, it feels _wrong_. I don’t think I should...”  
  
Geralt turned to see what he was babbling about, frowning when he did. Her body was convulsing violently against her restraints, eyes squeezed shut. He became aware of a foul smell, like rancid seawater, and made a disgusted face. “What the fuck?”  
  
“I - I don’t know, I can feel...she’s - “  
  
Annika’s eyes flew open and Geralt realized their vibrant green had been replaced with an all-encompassing black. She gave him a wicked grin and the guards, who had been ready to descend upon him, froze as she started speaking in an indistinguishable language.  
  
Jaskier stepped away, raising his hands in the air, watching in horror as Annika’s body suddenly went limp once more.  
  
The air grew cold, then. Moist. Jaskier shivered and drew into himself, watching his own breath fog in the sudden, drastic temperature change. Each inhale tasted of salt and brine, almost suffocating in its intensity.  
  
It was only early fall, the days still relatively warm - and though the bard wasn’t adept at keeping track of the time, he knew it couldn’t have been later than five or six in the morning. However, where the sky had once been a pleasant, robin’s egg blue, it was now a mottled patchwork of purple, navy, and black. Storm clouds rumbled menacingly overhead before giving way to torrential rain, absolute buckets that immediately drenched the yard and its inhabitants, turning cracked, dry dirt into muck and giving life to previously blanched, yellowing grass.  
  
“Geralt.” Jaskier scooted closer to the man, teeth chattering. For some reason he felt the need to whisper. “What’s happening?”  
  
A repetitive clicking sound filled the clearing and Jaskier noticed the creek bed behind Annika, which had been empty, was now overflowing with rainwater. In the background, guards murmured nervously as a bluish, pale hand broke the surface, claws digging into slick mud. Before long a hunched figure emerged, murky water cascading out from the gaping hole in its back, tiny rivulets seeping through an exposed rib cage.  
  
“Ohoho, _no_. Not this again. _Annika_!” Jaskier put his hands on his hips, turning to the witch with an irritated scowl. She remained unresponsive, head hanging limply, the only evidence she was somewhat _conscious_ being the low, guttural chanting that came from a deep place in her throat. “Annika, stop it! This has to be your _worst_ party trick, honestly, of all the - call it off or I’ll - I’ll - ”  
  
Geralt put a hand on Jaskier’s arm, quieting his discontent. “She’s not in control, Jaskier.”  
  
The mavka unfolded slowly, her movements a bit jolted, bones popping loudly into place - as though she’d been kept in a small box for a very long time, she released a whistling, rattling, _delighted_ sigh as she stretched and stood, at least six or seven feet tall.  
  
“Witcher. Kill it.” Jannick spoke suddenly from behind them, voice wavering uncertainly. This earned him a scathing look, Geralt making no move to ready his blade.  
  
That look, the lack of action on the Witcher’s part, was all Jannick’s men needed to break out in a flurry of panic, shouts turning to screams as they fell into general chaos.  
  
The mavka tilted her head curiously at the noise and began picking carefully through the grass on the tips of impossibly long toes.  
  
Her eyes - if they could be called that, as they more closely resembled endless black holes, the one dark spot in the lake where all light vanishes - wandered, painstakingly slow, through the terrified faces in the crowd before settling on Lord Jannick.  
  
With an ear-splitting cry she darted towards him, exhibiting incredible speed. One of his men ran to his aid and was thrown aside, hitting the ground with a sickening crunch. This had the others recoiling, backing away from their lord, weapons trembling in their hands.  
  
“Useless!” Jannick glowered at the corpse before turning back to Geralt. “ _Do_ something, you wretched mutant!” The mavka had stopped for a moment, leering hungrily at the guard’s crumpled body.  
  
“Fuck you.”  
  
“Fine.” A sneer. And even in what were most likely his final moments, Jaskier thought, the man was _so_ insufferable. It was like he just couldn’t help himself. “Then I’ll do it myself, and gut you like a pig when I’m through.”  
  
The lord drew his blade, the sound of it bringing the mavka’s attention back to him. She resumed her approach, slower now, relishing in his palpable fear. She opened her mouth wide in a shrill, happy screech, displaying an elongated gray tongue and several rows of fangs.  
  
Geralt turned to Jaskier. “She won’t stop after she’s done with him, but it will buy us some time. Can you try reaching Annika?”  
  
“Yes, I - I mean, maybe. I can’t really feel her anymore, but I think - I don’t know how, but I just _know_ she’s in there, that she doesn’t want...” the bard frowned, distracted by the sight of Jannick slicing madly at the mavka, steel rippling right through her as though he’d just cut through water. She giggled, the sound playful and almost _pleasant_ , like a babbling brook. “Geralt, are you sure we should just let him _die_? I mean, he _is_ what I imagine the embodiment of pure evil looks like, but, you know, is it really the _moral_ thing to - “  
  
There wasn’t time to consider Jaskier’s moral quandary, however, as at the last moment, realizing his attacks were useless, Jannick lunged to the side, dragging himself out of the way - leaving behind his son, who had been cowering and clutching the back of his father’s robes in fear.  
  
The creature paused, producing a labored, wheezing sound that ruffled the boy’s hair while she examined this new, smaller entity. Sniffing the air around him, drawing closer, the low clicking in the back of her throat speeding up excitedly when she recognized the scent of cursed blood coursing through his veins.  
  
The boy was terrified, frozen in place, hands fisted in the front of his tunic. Crying for his father. Jannick had high-tailed it out of slashing range, not responding to his son’s bloodcurdling screams even as the creature descended upon him.  
  
“ _Fucking coward_.” Geralt hissed, adjusting his grip on the blade and sprinting forward. He dove in front of the boy just in time, slicing through the horrifying visage - cursing when a blow that should have cut her in half just glanced through her. She dissolved into a puddle, raining down on the already-soaked grass. Faster than the last time, which meant that she was stronger. That Annika was giving it her all. Mages had lost themselves, their bodies and souls, to far less magical expenditure.  
  
He didn’t have time to dwell on that either, apparently, as a force crashed into him from behind, sending him flying. The mavka had rematerialized, immediately lunging at the only obstacle between her and her prey - Geralt barely rolled out of the way of her talons in time, embedding themselves in mud and dirt just centimeters away from his head.  
  
Jaskier decided it was time for him to act.  
  
As if sensing his approach, the witch lifted her chin to look at the bard. Her eyes were still black and the chanting hadn’t stopped, had actually slowly intensified until it was no longer an eerily melodic murmur but a shout, harsh and grating over the resounding chaos around them.  
  
Jaskier made a face, slowly moving closer. “Hello, lovely. Um, what’s, uh...what’s going on here? What’s all this?” He gestured vaguely at her...decidedly very scary, very demonic appearance. A pained grunt drew his attention away and he glanced nervously at Geralt, who had sustained a gruesome cut on his arm. The bard took a deep, shaky breath before turning back to Annika, trying to remain calm. Trying not to think about what was at stake. “So, how can I convince you to call off the thing currently trying to maim my beloved?”  
  
There was no response. The witch simply watched him, mouth moving around foreign words, almost seeing through him - though it _was_ hard to tell, given the whole no-irises look she was currently sporting. He steeled himself and took yet another step closer, reaching out a trembling hand.  
  
“Annika, it’s me - it’s _Jaskier_. You...well, you hate me, but it’s become somewhat complicated because I think I’ve actually grown on you a bit and you’ve ended up in this weird limbo where you’re trying to _deny_ it and - “  
  
Annika interrupted him by throwing her head back with a guttural scream, thrashing against her bonds and barely missing his outstretched hand with her snapping jaws.  
  
“Oh, yikes - okay, _okay_. That was an assumption. I’m _sorry_ \- “  
  
From where he was currently on the ground, wrestling a surprisingly strong, gangly, six-foot-tall sea monster, Geralt snarled, “Any _fucking_ day now, Jaskier!”  
  
“Right. Okay.” A sigh, Jaskier trying to focus. He had another idea, but it put _many_ valuable bits in danger. The bits that Annika generally enjoyed chomping off. “Guess I’ll...I’m just going to - I’m just going to do this, and if you bite my nose off I will _never_ forgive you.”  
  
Jaskier closed the space between them, pulling Annika into a warm, comforting embrace. She writhed violently, managing to sink her teeth into the sensitive skin of his neck - he winced but didn’t relent, only pulling her in closer, murmuring soft, soothing words in her ear.  
  
Above the Witcher, about to pounce once more, the mavka froze. She swayed slightly as she stood, as though her strings had suddenly been cut.  
  
“It’s working, Jaskier, keep - “ Geralt stopped short when he peered through the creature’s legs and saw the bard hugging Annika. Holding her close, despite the fact that she’d drawn blood, that she was screaming and thrashing and trying to hurt him however she could.  
  
Everything seemed to slow down, then. The yard’s terrified populace watched in awe as Annika’s shoulders suddenly sagged, her chanting replaced with soft, almost child-like sobs.  
  
A strange feeling bloomed in Geralt’s chest, pushing past the aching exhaustion, and he thought back to the other day, when Jaskier had befriended Mittens. She’d clawed and scratched at him at first, but he hadn’t stopped trying to feed her that damn piece of bread.  
  
Annika had been right - Jaskier was a rare find. He didn’t get enough credit for his strengths, the particularly annoying persistence that broke through walls and needled its way into even the hardest of hearts.  
  
In that moment, as the sun broke through the storm clouds raging above, the Witcher couldn’t take his eyes off Jaskier. The bard - his unbridled kindness, the way the bright morning light brought out the gold in his brown hair, his playful smile as Annika’s curls tickled his cheek - was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.  
  
Jaskier gently untied her bonds, easing her off the pile of soaked wood. Annika allowed him to hold her hand, and with the other, she reached for the stone in her pocket. After a moment - and a stolen glance back at the still ( _rightfully_ ) terrified crowd silently looking on - she tossed it into the water.  
  
With a breathy sigh, the mavka dissolved once more into a puddle of water, and Geralt looked on as it moved gracefully through the grass, tipping itself into the river and seamlessly joining the happy, coursing current.  
  
The fear that had permeated the clearing disappeared. The guards lowered their weapons, moved by the scene that just unfolded before them - ignoring Jannick’s cursing, his cries that Geralt had endangered his son, had endangered _everyone_. They’d seen the way he abandoned the boy, the cowardice he’d displayed even after one of their own had died to save _him_.  
  
Geralt stood, approaching the two, wanting to kiss Jaskier breathless then and there when he heard Jannick snarl from somewhere behind him, followed by a short scuffle. If he had looked back a moment sooner he would have seen that the lord had managed to wrestle a crossbow from one of his stunned guards and was aiming it directly at the Witcher’s heart.  
  
As Geralt’s head turned, he let the bolt fly.


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> To make up for this I will personally sing to you the version of toss a coin that I perform for my puppy in the morning, ‘toss a treat to miss stink bear’ (I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em) 
> 
> Ok, phew, here’s chapter 30! That many, huh? Who’s flying this thing?!

Everything happened very fast. Geralt went to blast the crossbow’s bolt - and Jannick - back but found that he had trouble controlling his arm, that the damage the mavka inflicted upon it was too severe. He was a split-second too slow, and the projectile made it through.  
  
Annika screamed - a desperate, ear-splitting noise - and shot a cluster of dark magic at the lord. It connected with his left just as Geralt’s delayed aard hit him in the right, both immediately fracturing several bones, doing extensive damage. Rather than knocking him up, the force of the two opposing blows sent him crashing into the mud, like a giant hand swatting a wicked, evil fly.  
  
The witch clutched her chest then, staggering forward with impact before falling to her knees with a pained, keening cry, eyes wide and terrified.  
  
Geralt didn’t see any of this, however - as soon as he’d cast the sign, something tackled him back down to the ground. He’d only _just_ managed to stand, too. A weight crushed his aching chest, one clumsy hand bearing down on the pulsing wound in his arm as its owner pushed themselves up a bit from the heap they’d both fallen in, making him hiss in pain.  
  
“‘S funny. Thought you’d be making jokes about me finally ending up on top of _you_. For continuity’s sake, Geralt.”  
  
He looked up to see Jaskier’s face hovering above him, dappled in crisp sunlight. Smiling. They were close enough that Geralt could see all the minor details, committing them to memory:  
  
Slightly furrowed brow. Soft, curved, pink lips. Dark eyelashes and darker, purplish bruising from their recent lack of restful sleep framing those ridiculous eyes, making them stand out against fair, peachy skin. Skin that was a little sweaty and _very_ dirty, covered in streaks of rain and mud but beautiful all the same as it shifted to make room for a wide, toothy grin.  
  
Geralt let out a relieved sigh, mixed with a soft laugh, at the sight of it, reaching his uninjured arm up to brush the bard’s bangs back from where they’d ended up messily plastered to his forehead.  
  
“Is it ‘finally?’ I think we both know this wouldn’t be the first time, Jaskier.”  
  
The bard snorted, and went to say something else - something filthy, no doubt - before suddenly interrupting himself with a deep, hacking cough. Geralt flinched as it sent a spray of red across his face, one droplet landing in his eye, blurring his vision. Red.  
  
_Red_. Not...  
  
Jaskier frowned and tried lifting his hand, tried wiping the offending color from Geralt’s cheek with his thumb - when the limb refused to respond properly, both men looked down.  
  
“Oh. Bollocks.”  
  
Through his doublet, the tip of a gleaming, bloodied, silver bolt winked at them in the sunlight, protruding from where it had entered his back and shot clean through, an inch or two left off-center in the bard’s chest.  
  
Relief gave way to horror.  
  
“Jaskier, _don’t_ \- ”  
  
With a strangled “buh?” he fell, as though seeing the bolt had broken a dam of some sort and Geralt just managed to catch him, carefully rolling them over until Jaskier was lying flat on his back in the grass.  
  
Annika gathered herself, tugging the neck of her dress and gazing down at the same spot just above her left breast, finding it unmarked, though the pain was excruciating.  
  
When she heard Geralt’s shout she immediately put two and two together, crawling towards them on her hands and knees, eyes wide as she took in the extent of the damage.  
  
Jaskier’s condition had deteriorated massively within seconds, and she knew he didn’t have long. The wet coughing, the blood that followed, staining the front of his doublet - all signs of internal hemorrhaging, meaning the crossbow’s bolt had hit some of his major organs. Lungs would give him little time. Heart, even less. Both combined...not good. Certainly not enough time to seek out a surgeon, or a healer. Her remaining magic would have to do. It _had_ to do.  
  
If she didn’t hold out, she’d make damn sure he did.  
  
Geralt was pale but surprisingly calm, hand hovering over the bolt in Jaskier’s chest as if afraid to touch it. She could hear his forced deep breathing, only successful from a lifetime of experience. Her own breaths were tight and labored.  
  
“Geralt.” She knelt by Jaskier’s head and started unbuttoning the top of his shirt to get access - Geralt was at his side. “We need to pull it out if I’m to repair the damage.” Somewhere below them, Jaskier made a noise of protest, hand flying up and nearly swatting her in the face. She firmed up her tone. “It needs to come out, _now_.”  
  
Geralt gave a short nod, placing his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders and holding him steady. She reached underneath and did the deed as mercifully as she could, but the bard screamed nonetheless, writhing violently around beneath them.  
  
The bolt was tossed aside and the effects were immediate, Jaskier’s eyes fluttering a bit as a strange, cold feeling started at the tips of his fingers and toes. His breathing became thready and shallow, skin clammy to the touch.  
  
“Keep pressure on the entry point in his back. I need to...I need to mend his internal organs, it’s...” She trailed off. Geralt did as she asked, not pushing her to finish the thought. He didn’t want to hear it, either.  
  
Things moved painfully slow. Oddly quiet. She placed her hands on Jaskier’s chest, above the exit wound, as Geralt bunched the fabric of the bard’s doublet up against his back.  
  
From above, the blood loss seemed minimal. Occasionally seeping out from under Annika’s palms - the real damage was behind, where Geralt’s hand was. He felt warmth spilling out around his closed fist as the doublet quickly grew heavy and damp.  
  
Jaskier seemed a little loopy, his eyes not leaving Geralt’s for even a second. He also continued talking, somehow. Though the sound of it pained the Witcher he couldn’t bear to ask the other man to stop. Didn’t want him to _ever_ stop talking after this horrible ordeal.  
  
“It’s all right, my sweet...um...honey bun? Lovely Annika’s going to patch me up, and...” Jaskier was encouraged by Geralt’s quirked brow. His words were slow and dreamy, the only evidence of distress being the ragged hitch between each syllable. “And...and if _not_ , I demand that my grave marker read ‘honey bun’s f- _favorite_ plaything.’ No, um...no take backs.”  
  
Geralt couldn’t help but laugh, though it lacked any sort of humor, was more of a shaky huff. After a moment he looked down, watching as Annika’s hands pressed into the wound, pushing in further. The bard no longer flinched at her touch.  
  
“I...don’t like that joke, Jaskier.”  
  
“Yeah...” His breath rattled in his chest as he spoke, labored and wet. Painful. People who sounded like that didn’t have long, Geralt thought numbly - immediately cursing himself as he did. “Me neither.”  
  
There was a moment of silence. Annika subtly met Geralt’s gaze, and he noticed there were a few tears trapped in her lashes. Sweat beaded on her brow, face screwed up in pain. She shook her head.  
  
Jaskier caught the movement, though, and let out a soft “oh.”  
  
He returned his gaze to Geralt, voice a damp, wheezing whisper in the back of his throat. “Definitely no take backs, then, Geralt. Honey bun it is.” A frown. “It’s shit, isn’t it? I can do better...”  
  
Guilt tugged at Geralt as he thought of all the silly, imaginative names Jaskier had come up with in the last few days. He’d only denied them because he enjoyed getting under Jaskier’s skin, enjoyed the way the bard would playfully shove him, or occasionally silence him into tentative approval with a kiss. When faced with the prospect of living life without any of that, Geralt felt unimaginably empty.  
  
Blood stained the grass beneath him, wet and dark, mixing with small puddles of leftover rainwater. Jaskier’s eyes were glazed over, drifting across the yard.  
  
Geralt snarled as Annika removed her hands, catching one and shoving it back down onto the bard’s chest.  
  
“Try. Again.”  
  
“Geralt...”  
  
“ _Again_.”  
  
She nodded and closed her eyes, placing both hands back on the wound. Dizziness threatened to overwhelm her but she steadied herself, remembering the tenderness of the bard’s embrace that brought her back. Saved her life.  
  
Blue eyes found his, seizing another moment of clarity.  
  
“We were never destined for a happy ending, were we, Geralt?”  
  
A hand came up to brush his cheek and Geralt grabbed it like a lifeline, roughly pressing it to his lips and shaking his head.  
  
“Don’t _fucking_ say that, Jaskier - ”  
  
The bard was strangely calm.  
  
“It’s okay. Everything’s okay, and it’s not your fault. I _love_ you, you insufferable brute.”  
  
“Stop.” Geralt noticed fresh wetness dripping onto Jaskier’s cheeks from above, tracking a few thin lines through the grime. He vaguely, somewhat deliriously wondered if it had started raining again.  
  
It hadn’t.  
  
“Stop talking like that. You’re not dying, Jaskier, you’re not allowed to fucking - ” His voice caught in his throat as the hand went limp, slipping bonelessly out from his vice-like grip and falling into the grass with a soft thud. There had been convulsions before, but they’d eerily stopped. “Jaskier!”  
  
Annika cursed, ripping the rest of Jaskier’s shirt open as soon as his eyes flickered back. She stuck her pointer finger in the wound with a sick squelch, Jaskier’s limp body reacting as she swirled it around, but his motions were wrong, jolting, as though she was rooting around inside a corpse. He wasn’t actually moving or _responding_ -  
  
Geralt’s mouth went dry. He found he could barely swallow. His voice shook when he spoke, grabbing her wrist. Anything to make it _stop_.  
  
“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”  
  
“Let _go_. I need to save him.” She tried to yank her hand away but Geralt didn’t relent, growling, his grip tightening as he pulled her finger out. It was now coated in Jaskier’s blood. “Geralt. Please, let me _try_.”  
  
After a tense moment he released her, watching with forced detachment as she used the blood to start drawing something on Jaskier’s exposed, motionless abdomen. There wasn’t a third heartbeat, he realized belatedly. He could hear hers and his own thudding in his ears. There wasn’t a third.  
  
His body felt cold. Numb.  
  
Somewhere in the distance, he heard the rustle of fabric. A pained gurgle. This time he reacted with lightning speed, and within seconds was upon the man. His hand, covered in the bard’s blood, balled up the front of Jannick’s robe, dragging him unceremoniously off the ground.  
  
The guards had been cleaning up after the mavka’s destruction, taking their fallen man to be properly buried. One instinctively went to aid his lord but when he saw the unrestrained fury on Geralt’s face, still splattered with the blood of his lover, he instantly backed down, hands raised in silent supplication.  
  
That third heartbeat remained horribly absent. Deafeningly so. As he punched Jannick in the face, cracking his jaw and sending him crashing back down to the ground, he listened for it beneath Annika’s calm, steady chants.  
  
When he heard nothing he straddled the lord, wrapping his hands about his meaty throat, baring his teeth as the man - barely conscious, suffering from horrible injuries, possible internal bleeding - spluttered, a weak fist trying to bat him away.  
  
“W - _Witcher_ \- “ Jannick managed, his face turning an intense shade of purple mixed with red. “ _You_ \- “  
  
“He’s dead.” He tightened his grip, relishing as warm flesh gave beneath strong, capable fingers. “You killed him.”  
  
It was then that Jannick knew he was absolutely, without a doubt, completely and utterly fucked.  
  
Geralt knew where to apply pressure to keep the man conscious. Strangling, relenting. But the longer he went without hearing a heartbeat, the less he focused on his goal of making Jannick suffer.  
  
It felt like an eternity. He didn’t want to think of anything else, just wanted to focus on Jannick’s thready heartbeat at his fingertips, focus on stopping it as he’d stopped Jaskier’s. The man’s eyes were fluttering back in his head now, face nearly _violet_ , and it didn’t feel good but somehow it felt right to -  
  
“ _Geralt_!”  
  
Immediately, he released the lord, and the man collapsed back into the pile of mud he’d crawled out of, sucking in greedy lungfuls of air.  
  
Geralt ran to Annika, feet slipping on the wet ground as he slid to Jaskier’s side, trying not to hope because that deafening silence hadn’t relented and gazing upon Jaskier’s still face meant acknowledging the truth. The witch looked terrible, but he didn’t have time to think about that now. He examined the bard, trying to detect any signs of life.  
  
The wound had scarred over in the shape of a smaller version of the seal painted on the soft skin of Jaskier’s stomach, no larger than the nail of Geralt’s thumb. Blood magic.  
  
Geralt’s fingers grazed it cautiously. “At what cost?”  
  
Before she could answer, a faint heartbeat started up again and he silenced her with his hand. It was weak, nearly inaudible behind the rush of adrenaline and blood coursing through Geralt’s veins. But it was there.  
  
Wide, pale blue eyes fluttered open. Blinked once. Twice. Everything else melted away as he grabbed Jaskier, pulling him up off the bloodied grass and into his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Geralt doesn’t feel too OOC at the end. Whether he would have actually killed Jannick is up to you, dear reader!
> 
> Also, narrator: blah blah, jaskier’s face  
> Geralt, zeroing in with razor-sharp intensity: beautiful, tiny freckle. Smallest freckle. Need to kiss -


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So those last two chapters marked the final ****big battle***** and from here on out we’ll be dealing with the aftermath and resolution and......mending certain ~consequences~...and Yen and Ciri will be back in the fray!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt and Jaskier have a competition to see who can say the other’s name the most.

Jaskier’s resurrection was peaceful and elegant. The stuff of storybooks. Like a princess waking from a magically-induced slumber - swaddled in Geralt’s arms, the sunlight tickling his cheek, the feeling of warm breath in his lungs.  
  
This lasted for about five seconds, before he promptly lurched to the side, spitting up a mouthful of leftover blood that had collected in a disgusting, stagnant, metallic pool at the back of his throat.  
  
All over the other man’s mud-caked boots, of course.  
  
So, not like a fairytale at all - though the princesses in those stories rarely woke shirtless and confused, with blood seals crudely painted on their navels. The wicked witch kneeling at their side, relieved face absolutely wrecked by exhaustion. And smiling because he was alive, was breathing and well enough to muster a few colorful obscenities as he gagged.  
  
Geralt frowned as the bard hacked and wretched in an attempt to get the awful taste out of his mouth. “Jaskier. How are you feeling?”  
  
Comically large, watery eyes looked helplessly up at him. “Fucking - _awful_ , Geralt! I - “ he noticed the man’s hand - currently on the small of his back, rubbing soothing circles - and his ears went a little pink. “Geralt, your hand is very, um, _distracting_ and I’m currently - wait, why _am_ I half-naked? And what is _this_?“  
  
Geralt had removed his hand, not necessarily disheartened but certainly maintaining his frown as Jaskier scrambled around in a little semi-circle, blood squelching beneath him. He placed a hand on his belly and carefully traced the seal - a finger slowly trailed up towards the raw, pink scar and he squeaked. The sight of it had everything flooding back to him with jarring force.  
  
His back was terribly sore, and he was surrounded by red - the more he moved, the more it stained his pants, his hands, his wrists. Massive amounts of blood, his _own_ blood if the dizziness and sluggishness were anything to go by. He felt like he’d been drained by a succubus - _again_ \- though this experience was distinctly lacking all of the initial pleasantness.  
  
“Geralt - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier._ “ Geralt reached a hand out once more, this time allowing it to settle on neutral territory - Jaskier’s shoulder - in an attempt to calm him. He had woken up quite pale, but it was worsening with each gruesome revelation he made. “You’re okay. You’re _alive_.”  
  
“I should bloody well _hope_ so, I mean, is...is all this mine? This blood? It’s so much, how did you heal - “ Jaskier froze and Geralt cursed himself because ‘you’re alive’ might not have been the best choice of words. The bard slowly put the scene - the sheer volume of blood, the seal, the strangely tender look on Geralt’s _face_ \- together, and his eyes widened even more, if possible. “Geralt...what just happened? Did I _die_? Am - am I a ghost, Geralt?”  
  
A certain amount of delicacy was required here.  
  
“Um...” Geralt paused, tried thinking of a less blunt way to put it. Unfortunately, delicacy wasn’t his strong suit, and he decided to go with brutal honesty. “Fuck it. Yes.” Jaskier gasped. “No - I mean, _no_. You’re not a damn ghost, Jaskier. How would that even make - ?” He shook his head, breathing out through his nose. “Doesn’t matter. You’re _not_ a ghost. You, uh...you did die, though.”  
  
“Only for a minute or two.” Annika piped up suddenly from where she was bracing herself against the grass, giving the bard a tired, cheeky smile when he yelped and whirled around, noticing her for the first time. “Come on, don’t be such a baby about it.”  
  
He spluttered for a moment - ready to inform them that together, they made up what was possibly the _worst_ , _least_ reassuring post-death welcoming crew ever created - but stopped when he noticed how pale she was, the lines of her face more pronounced than they’d ever been. He put his incredulity on the back-burner, reaching a hand out to her.  
  
“Annika, did you do this? _How_? Are you all right? You look...well, would ‘bad’ be too insulting?”  
  
Beside him, he felt Geralt bristle. “The cost. Annika, what was it?”  
  
The bard certainly seemed fine, all things considered. There were no obvious sacrifices like his voice or his hearing or his _mind_ \- but there were still the less obvious ones, like his soul. The life of someone close to him. There was always an equal cost to blood magic, Geralt knew, and although Annika looked like hell she was alive. It couldn’t have been her own life, the toll would have been paid instantaneously - magic didn’t provide grace periods, especially not when it came to something as serious as life and death.  
  
“I don’t know what it cost _him_. There wasn’t a lot of time for bartering, Geralt, and it’s usually quite personal - I was just the facilitator. You may remember I was also suffering from his severe blood loss. And lack of a _pulse_. Think I lost more than a few brain cells, honestly.” She sighed, massaging her temples. “I do know what it cost me to even speak the bloody incantation, though.”  
  
“What?” Jaskier’s brow was creased in concern. “Annika, I’m sorry - I caused this. You shouldn’t have to - ”  
  
“Oh, hush. You’ve just taken years off my life with that little stunt, there’s no use quibbling about it now. And I do mean that quite literally - I had to sacrifice the last ten or so.”  
  
“ _Gods_ , Annika, that’s - I can’t _ask_ that of - “  
  
“It’s all right, Jaskier. You saved me, too. It was well worth it.” She dropped her hand as the headache slowly ebbed away, allowing it to rest on top of his. “Besides, I’ve got a few tricks up my sleeve. Haven’t aged for the last decade at least, and I’m healthy as a horse. It’ll be a long time before I’m forced to pay the piper.”  
  
“That’s _hardly_ a comfort!”  
  
“Come to think of it, there is one other thing...”  
  
Geralt had been silently examining the bard, trying to find any evidence of what might have been taken from him. Upon hearing the change in her tone, he scowled. “What?”  
  
“I might have promised his singing voice. Nothing to do with his resurrection, just to save my own ears.” She turned to Jaskier. “You won’t be able to carry a tune in a bucket, I’m afraid. _So_ sorry.”  
  
Jaskier let out a horrified gasp, hand flying to his throat, ready to run a few scales to test it out when he noticed her falsely-serious demeanor had cracked and given way to a wicked little grin. “ _You_ \- use another bloody idiom, Annika. I _dare_ you. Gods. Absolutely intolerable.”  
  
“Don’t give me that, I know how much you enjoy my teasing. Honey bun.”  
  
Geralt snorted - Jaskier frowned, wrinkling his nose. “‘ _Honey bun_?’”  
  
“Ah. You _were_ delirious from blood loss, I guess you wouldn’t remember.” Annika winked at the Witcher, who rolled his eyes. “Geralt didn’t seem to mind that pet name, surprisingly. Though it certainly wasn’t your best work.”  
  
His frown deepened, cheeks flushing. “G- _Geralt_? Why on earth - “  
  
They were interrupted as a guard approached them. Jannick had been carted off by his men - nobody dared bother the blood-drenched trio, especially not after Geralt had unleashed his fury upon the lord. But Jaskier recognized this man as the one who had allowed them safe passage out of the dungeon the previous night.  
  
The book was in his hands. Beneath it, balanced in his arms, was a small bundle. He kept shooting nervous glances back at the keep.  
  
Geralt growled at him when he got too close, standing and using his body to block the sight of Jaskier, who had given the guard a friendly little smile.  
  
“What do you want?”  
  
The man backed off a bit. “I was just - well, Jannick’s sure to be on the warpath as soon as he wakes. He was out of it, but I did hear him talking about sending a raven to a powerful ally. Putting a warrant out for your arrest.” Cautiously, he passed the book and the bundle to Geralt, who grudgingly accepted the offering. “Our ranks are divided - some still support him, for whatever reason. Blind loyalty. You’ll need to hurry out of here, use the book to prove your innocence. And the shirt to, um...clothe your bard.”  
  
“I don’t give a shit what Jannick does. He can stick his warrants up his arse.” Geralt unfolded the bundle and found a fresh white blouse. With a shrug, he tossed it to Jaskier, who had been stuck on the use of the word ‘your’ and didn’t see it coming - it hit him directly in the face. “Why do you care?”  
  
“He also spoke of imprisoning those who didn’t come to his aid - branding us as traitors. That’s cause for execution.” He looked pointedly at what remained of the stake. “I don’t think I need to tell you his preferred methods.”  
  
“What isn’t cause for execution in this _fucking_ hellhole?” Geralt hissed, scowling at a group of guards who were watching their discussion from across the yard. They hurriedly looked away. “And that’s a lot of talk for a man whose throat I just crushed. Think I cracked his jaw, too. Pity it didn’t shut him up.”  
  
“We need your help, Witcher. To expose him.”  
  
“Of course you do.”  
  
After he’d slipped on the shirt, Jaskier stood on shaky legs - when he swayed to the side a bit, Geralt - whose eyes hadn’t left their unlikely helper - instinctively grabbed his arm and steadied him. The bard looked down at the other man’s hand for a moment, worrying his lower lip before turning to the guard. “We’ll do it.”  
  
“Jask - “  
  
“ _Geralt_. We need to do this.” Jaskier thought of the scar, the lingering tenderness in his back. He subconsciously winced at the memory of fear and pain, of slowly drowning as his lungs filled with - “ _I_ need to do this. Please.”  
  
The Witcher studied him for a moment. When he spoke again, his tone had softened. For Jaskier’s sake. “All right.” And the relief on the bard’s face was reward enough. “I know someone with connections. She’ll be better equipped to handle this political bullshit.”  
  
“Thank you, Witcher. Your horse is in the stables, ready for traveling. I’m...afraid I must go.”  
  
With that, he scampered off, clearly nervous about being seen talking to them. Jaskier huffed a sigh, offering Annika a hand and helping her up. She brushed herself off, taking a moment to dispel the encroaching dizziness before speaking.  
  
“Right, then. It’s been _such_ a pleasure, nearly dying together a bunch of times, but I’ve got to run.”  
  
Geralt blocked her way as she started casually heading off the keep’s property. “Are you forgetting that you got us into this mess? Where do you think you’re going?”  
  
She groaned, trying to move past him - giving up after a moment, too tired to put up much of a fight. “Back to my cave, you know, I think I’ve left the kettle on this whole time and that can’t be good for the...” she trailed off when she realized Geralt clearly wasn’t buying it. “Oh, all right. I guess I’ll see this through. But only because I want to see Jannick’s head on a fucking spike.”  
  
He grunted and nodded, satisfied with her answer. As they headed to the stables to collect Roach, Jaskier found himself cursing that prick Jannick and his entire house - not _literally_. He’d seen firsthand how _that_ whole business had turned out.  
  
“It’s bloody typical, isn’t it? We save him from a - a - “ Annika offered the word ‘mavka,’ which he purposely ignored, much to her annoyance. “horrible, naked _swamp monster_ , and that’s how he shows his gratitude? Filling me with holes and trying to arrest us?” A pause. “ _Again_. Arrest us _again_.”  
  
They’d reached the stables at this point, and before they entered, Geralt put a hand on his waist, pulling him in with incredible familiarity that had the bard instinctively settling into his cupped palm. “That reminds me - this is for being reckless. And scaring me.”  
  
He went in to kiss the other man - Jaskier squeaked and pulled his face back, dodging Geralt’s lips and regarding him with wide, confused eyes.  
  
“Whoa! G- _Geralt_ \- you - you know, there are other ways to show _your_ gratitude - “  
  
Annika’s face went pale (pal _er_ ), watching in horror as Jaskier squirmed out of Geralt’s embrace, spluttering and blushing furiously. She murmured a soft, “oh, fuck.”  
  
“Jaskier?” Geralt hadn’t picked up on it yet, apparently, examining Jaskier’s face, both of them looking so _horribly_ perplexed. “What’s wrong?”  
  
“Guys - “  
  
“It’s just, since I woke you’ve been _very_ handsy, it’s not a complaint but, I mean - I puked blood on your _boots_ and you didn’t say a _word_ , and - I’d be happy with a simple ‘thank you for saving my life, Jaskier’ - “  
  
“ _Guys_ \- ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_ , what are you on about - “  
  
The bard had put a foot of space between them now, stepping back with each frenzied word, face turning an impossible shade of red. “Are you sure I’m not still dead? That this isn’t...this isn’t the afterlife?” He pinched himself, frowning when it hurt. “Not a dream, either? I’ve - I’m not saying I’ve h-had dreams like this, but, um...gods, what’s happening? Get it together, Jaskier.”  
  
Horrible realization dawned on Geralt. He narrowed his eyes, rounding angrily on Annika, who had slowly been inching away while half-heartedly trying to alert them to this newfound predicament. Hoping to at least get out of striking range before he caught on.  
  
“Annika.”  
  
“Uh. Yes, dear?”  
  
“Don’t ‘dear’ me. What the fuck is this?” He gestured to Jaskier, who stopped babbling as soon as he noticed both of them staring at him.  
  
She sucked in a breath. “Well, I can’t say for sure, but...I think we might’ve just found out the cost.”  
  
“Hold on. Just hold _on_. What are you two talking about? What was the cost?” Jaskier looked so awfully helpless, still blushing furiously, trying to recover from Geralt _touching_ and trying to _kiss_ him.  
  
He absolutely hated the fact that the other man looked so strangely _hurt_ and for a reason that was beyond him, he knew it was his own fault. After a moment, the Witcher crossed his arms over his chest, now scrutinizing him with unwavering intensity.  
  
“What is my relationship to you, Jaskier?”  
  
That certainly felt like a trick question. He glanced between Geralt and Annika, not sure what to make of this sudden interrogation, though it was starting to feel like there was a _lot_ riding on his answer.  
  
“Re...relationship? Well, we had a falling out, and then we made up after _someone_ \- ” a pointed look at Annika there “ - cursed me, and now we’re back to...best friends? Partners in crime? C-confidants - gods, what _is_ it? Why are you both _looking_ at me like that?”  
  
“And how did we break your curse?”  
  
Jaskier thought about that. For whatever reason, he couldn’t quite remember. There had been a lot of blood then, too. It was a hazy, bloody, distant memory. He hazarded a guess, speaking slowly to gauge their reactions. “Was it...the power of friendship, perhaps?”  
  
It was Geralt’s turn to massage his temples, feeling a massive headache coming on. For the umpteenth time since they’d started this journey, he found himself cursing magic and all of its fucking complexities.  
  
“Fantastic. _Fucking_ fantastic.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My excuse to write copious amounts of fluff and awkward moments while they fix this oop


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope the fact that I’m occasionally updating every other day is all right! Especially for the lengthier, heavier chapters. I do most of my writing at night and that extra day is just the right amount of time to make sure I’m happy with everything before posting :)
> 
> ALSO please check out this wonderful artwork by the amazing @min_T of Jaskier being a lil shit in the treasure room, I’m going to put it in chapter 27 when I figure out how (I suck and can barely italicize) but for now, here is the link!!! : https://jaskieralt.tumblr.com/post/611069443501621248/a-scene-draw-from-chapter-27-of-pilot01-s-fic

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You best believe I managed to find these boys a hot bath out in the middle of the fuckin wilderness.

It was midday by the time they made it out of the keep, with a small squad of armed guards escorting them to the gates. They’d interrupted their discussion at the stables, much to Jaskier’s dismay - it had also put a damper on their plan to steal one of Jannick’s horses for the journey.  
  
The area surrounding Valenves Keep and the small village beneath it was steep and mountainous, with a dense population of tall, slender pine trees, the spaces between them coated in a thick mist.  
  
Their trip in had been easy - they’d taken the winding main path - but without an extra horse, Geralt was wary of going that way again. Especially considering the fact that there was sure to be a bounty along with Jannick’s arrest warrant. If any guards or money-starved villagers saw fit to get a jump on that reward, perhaps try and slit their throats while they slept, a less predictable route through the forest would serve as a deterrent. Longer, but safe.  
  
Jaskier sold two of his pilfered rings to buy some supplies: food and water, new clothes and a skin of wine (because he desperately wanted something to cut through the awkward tension that had settled between him and Geralt). They’d need to stop and make camp relatively soon, preferably near water so they could bathe, rest and eat - the last two days had allowed for very little of that, and they were bloody, dirty, and exhausted.  
  
_Very_ bloody, Jaskier thought, noticing the way the villagers hustled out of their way as they made to leave. The three of them probably made quite the horrific spectacle, covered head-to-toe in gore and grime as they were. And Geralt’s face, a veritable dark cloud - he glared daggers at anyone who dared come within a foot of their small party.  
  
After they’d made it out, they began picking their way through the woods, flanking Roach - Annika was at her left, Geralt and Jaskier trailing along on the other side. The trees were too close for anyone to properly ride the mare, and there were countless small springs scattered throughout; they became a more frequent sight the higher they climbed and their warmth was producing the steam that blanketed the terrain. It made for a beautiful - if not somewhat eerie - atmosphere but, needless to say, navigating around them hindered progress quite a bit. Geralt guessed it would be about a two-day journey before they reached Yen.  
  
“So, you’re saying we _kissed_?” Jaskier piped up suddenly. Geralt hadn’t actually said anything of the sort, but the bard was unable to continue on in uncomfortable silence, his thoughts going a mile a minute.  
  
“Yes, Jaskier. We kissed.”  
  
He thought of how naturally Geralt had drawn him in back at the stables, as though they’d done it hundreds of times.  
  
“Did we kiss... _frequently_?”  
  
From the other side of Roach, Annika snorted - Geralt shot her a look over the horse’s back.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
There was that blush again - the one that had decided to take up permanent residence on Jaskier’s face, his cheeks in a perpetual state of burning.  
  
“So...um, did we also... _you know_...” Jaskier, who was certainly not shy, for some reason could not bring himself to say it. Instead, he made an obscene, comical gesture with his hands. The witch was covering her mouth in an attempt to stifle a _very_ mean laugh - she didn’t do a good job, the noise bouncing off the trees. “ _Shove it_ , Annika.”  
  
She removed her hand, cackling quietly. “Seems you’ve got that covered, actually. What _is_ that?”  
  
Geralt watched the gesture in question with an unreadable expression. After a moment he rolled his eyes and nodded.  
  
“F-fucking hell, Geralt!” It was just too much - Jaskier’s mind was positively blown, eyes wide as saucers. There wasn’t a word to describe the vibrant intensity of his blush. “H-how did we...um, how on earth did we get _there_ , Geralt? I - I can’t remember a damn thing about - that’s - are you _quite_ sure, Geralt?”  
  
He was saying the other man’s name too much, he realized. It happened often, especially when he was extremely flustered, but in this situation it only served to intensify his embarrassment.  
  
“ _Quite_.”  
  
It wasn’t that he was terribly shocked about the act itself. It was a fairly common occurrence for him - and one that usually got him into heaps of trouble.  
  
It was the fact that it was with Geralt. Sex. With _Geralt_. Sex with Geralt that he had absolutely no recollection of, which was a travesty in its own right. He imagined that encounter would have been _particularly_ ballad-worthy.  
  
When he thought back on their journey thus far, the one that had apparently brought the two men closer than they’d _ever_ been, he could remember nothing of the sort. He recalled all of their near-death experiences and close encounters with crystal-clear clarity. Recalled Jannick’s cruelty, the secrets they’d uncovered, their initially tentative alliance with Annika. Lots and lots of blood.  
  
But there were gaps - gaps that left him feeling strangely empty. A lot of blank spaces from when he’d been truth-spelled, and even more following that, leaving behind a patchwork of pain and missing pieces.  
  
He needed to know more, needed to know the extent of what had happened between them, but Geralt was stubbornly refusing to give him anything other than insincere ‘hm’’s and irritated ‘yes’’s.  
  
“Well, di - “  
  
Geralt cut him off sharply. “So help me, Jaskier, if the next words out of your mouth are ‘did we’ I’m going to toss you off this mountain.”  
  
“Oh, all right. Fair point.” The bard paused, rephrasing the question in his head. “But _were_ we - “  
  
“For _fuck’s_ sake. I’m not doing this right now.”  
  
“Well, that’s too _bad_ , you arse! You’ve - it’s just - honestly, your silence on the matter is only making it _worse_. We broke my curse...how, exactly?”  
  
“A kiss.” Geralt lied, not missing a beat.  
  
For some reason that only made Jaskier blush harder. Which was ridiculous - he’d spoken with Geralt about far _more_ with far _less_ discomfort in the past.  
  
“And then what? We decided to just go the whole bloody way? F-fast and loose? Or, um...slow and...gods.” With considerable effort, he reined it back in. “Why would us kissing break it, though? Just one _kiss_? That seems...Geralt, what aren’t you telling me?”  
  
Geralt abruptly stopped and squinted at him, mulling something over. After a long, breathless moment he continued walking, muttering in a low, resentful tone as he did. “It was just a fucking kiss.”  
  
Annika raised a brow, but said nothing.

♜ ♖

“I’ll not stand idly by while you talk my ear off about the banalities of life as a penniless troubadour.” Annika hissed at Jaskier, who had wandered over to her side in an attempt to escape Geralt’s very intense _glaring_. He didn’t think the Witcher realized he was doing it, but could feel those piercing gold eyes boring holes into the back of his neck all the same. “And do not _use_ me to escape your discomfort.” She gave him a gentle nudge, back to Geralt’s side. “ _Shoo_.”  
  
Jaskier went to respond, to tell her she was being a _very_ bad friend, when Geralt stopped suddenly and sniffed the air, scowling as the foul scent he’d picked up on intensified, somewhere off to their left.  
  
“Geralt? What is it? What do you, er...smell?”  
  
“Pack of bloaters. Stay with Roach.”  
  
His somewhat hostile tone brooked no argument and the bard nodded as Geralt stalked off, unsheathing his silver sword and disappearing into the trees. Jaskier took the reins and gave the mare a few comforting scratches between her ears. She’d smelled trouble too, it seemed, and was nickering nervously, stamping her hooves.  
  
“It’s okay, you sweet, sweet girl. Grumpy Geralt’s going to take care of - “  
  
Jaskier’s gentle cooing was interrupted by a guttural shriek, followed by a low growl. Something repeatedly getting clobbered with the broad side of a sword. Followed by _more_ screeching cries, an awful lot of slashing and what sounded like a very brutal series of punches.  
  
“I think he’s taking this rather well.” Annika said pointedly, amidst all the thwacking and grunting. Jaskier shot her a scathing look, nearly jumping out of his skin when a stray, bluish, disembodied torso came sailing out of the steamy mist, slamming into a tree with a horrible squelch. They watched as it slowly slid down the trunk until settling in a viscous heap on the ground. “You know, all things considered. Best to let him blow off some steam, now that you’re not - ”  
  
“Do _not_ finish that sentence, Annika.”  
  
Geralt’s incredibly violent rampage went on for a little while - Jaskier ended up draped across Roach for the duration of it, filling her in on what she’d missed of their adventure because Annika flat-out _refused_ to put up with his ‘senseless yammering,’ as she so lovingly put it - until the sounds slowly petered out and the forest was once again draped in peaceful silence.  
  
“Geralt?” The bard poked his head up, sliding off the horse’s back and guiding her through the narrow cluster of trees until they came upon a small clearing. Geralt was standing at its center, surrounded by the aftermath of what they’d rightly guessed was an absolute bloodbath.  
  
The bloaters had been annihilated. Desiccated and demolished, to the point where they were no longer recognizable as anything more than goo and sludge. A stray limb hung from the low-hanging branches of a tree, ichor dripping steadily into a small spring below and tainting its teal waters.  
  
Jaskier stepped gingerly over what appeared to be a crushed, severed head, watching as Geralt wiped his sword in a patch of grass and sheathed it. He was coated in a thick layer of the same smelly, brackish sludge.  
  
“Are you all right, Geralt? Yuck, you’ve got something, just there - oh, _ugh_ , that is _disgusting_ , you are positively dripping with...” Jaskier reached out to Geralt and then quickly recoiled, dropping his hand when he saw the odd look on the other man’s face, noticed the way he bristled at the bard’s suddenly close proximity. “Is that an _eyeball_?”  
  
The Witcher glanced down at his shoulder and shrugged, casually brushing it off. “Probably. Let’s set up camp for the night.”  
  
“What, _here_?” Jaskier blanched, now holding his nose in an effort to block out the stench. “Amongst the...rotting carcasses? No, _no_ , I think not.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, jerking his head to the far side of the small space. Jaskier followed the motion and gasped, forgetting all about the awkwardness and tension, running to the edge of the clearing to look out at at the breathtaking view just beyond the trees.  
  
It was another break in the forest, larger than Geralt’s little bloater butchery. A small, craggy hill gave way to several levels of the same pretty wells of milky water, climbing up the face of the mountain and steaming pleasantly in the evening chill. There were several trees scattered throughout that would provide protection, and the perfect amount of space in the center to set up their bedrolls, start a nice-sized fire.  
  
Once they’d carefully navigated Roach down the hill and set up for the night, they collectively decided that bathing and changing into fresh clothes were far more pressing matters than their hunger. As a group, they did not smell great, and Annika desperately needed to clean the injuries on her back.  
  
There were two medium-sized springs that were easily accessible and separated by several trees, providing a nice amount of privacy - Annika bluntly informed them that while they’d gotten closer over the last couple days, they certainly weren’t _that_ close.  
  
She left to get cleaned up and Geralt started undressing immediately. Upon hearing Jaskier’s mortified squeak, he stopped unbuttoning his pants and turned to the bard, an apologetic look on his face.  
  
“Sorry. Uh, force of habit.” He suddenly seemed a bit uncomfortable, though Jaskier wouldn’t know because he was trying to look anywhere other than the broad expanse of Geralt’s bare chest. “We’ll take turns. You first, I’ll go - ”  
  
Jaskier quickly shook his head, forcing himself to make eye contact, to not make this situation any weirder than it already was. “No! I mean, _no_. It’s fine, Geralt. I’m fine.” He gestured to Geralt’s left leg. “And I think the bloater guts are burning through your pants, anyway.”  
  
The Witcher glanced down to where the acidic fluid was currently sizzling and eating at his pant leg, and snorted. “That can’t be good. All right.” A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “And Jaskier?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
“Try to keep your hands to yourself.”  
  
Jaskier let out a short, surprised laugh, tension dissolving the tiniest bit as he slipped out of his own clothes, stiff from all the dried blood and muck. “Oh, ha- _ha_ , Geralt. You are a _bloody_ riot.”  
  
By the time they’d settled into the hot spring, it was nighttime. A few fireflies hovered above the water, winking at them, and the full moon provided just the right amount of light.  
  
Jaskier had trouble appreciating any of it - the second he’d noticed the fireflies, he realized that he’d somehow managed to stumble into what was possibly _the_ most romantic scene ever created. Steam rising gently around them, the delightful warmth of the water. And a naked Witcher at the other end of the pool, bathed in gentle moonlight and scrubbing furiously at a particularly stubborn patch of dried blood on his arm.  
  
His arm had healed quite nicely, considering how gutted the mavka’s talons had left it - the only evidence that he’d been injured were a series of scars across his bicep, though they looked weeks old.  
  
Jaskier found his eyes kept wandering curiously back to that blasted bicep, observing the way its tendons and muscles flexed and tightened as he cleaned himself, hand moving to scrub at his chest and allowing a clear view of well-defined abs, wet and glistening in the -  
  
He caught himself and dragged his eyes away. Tried focusing on the tranquil forest around them. Move past his... _budding_ curiosity.  
  
“Ger - “ his voice was far too high-pitched. He cleared his throat before trying again. “ _Geralt_.”  
  
The scrubbing stopped. Golden eyes found his, illuminated by the reflection of the moon on the water’s surface. “Yes, Jaskier?”  
  
“About our, uh, torrid love affair?” That earned him a withering look. “What was the nature of it, exactly? Were we just...you know...doing the old lust-and-thrust? Or was it, um - ”  
  
“Not the fucking euphemisms again, Jaskier, I swear to - ”  
  
Jaskier frowned, partially because he had no idea what the other man was talking about. He stubbornly continued, ignoring the interruption. “ - or was it something _more_ than that? I don’t know why, but I feel like there’s some part of this you’re leaving out, Geralt. A very, very important part. And - and you’re clearly upset over it.” He scooted closer, concern for his friend winning over any tension or uncertainty he felt. “Please, be honest with me.”  
  
The Witcher paused, not expecting that particular question, though he should have. Even if he didn’t remember their relationship, the bard was too clever for his own good, and _annoyingly_ adept at reading him.  
  
He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he thought back to what Jaskier had said just moments before his heart stopped. That they weren’t destined for a happy ending - never had been. The memory brought back the cold feeling in his chest that he’d felt upon watching Jaskier slip away.  
  
It was irritatingly persistent despite the warmth of the water, and Geralt couldn’t shake it or the nagging idea that the bard had been right. That they couldn’t achieve that, no matter how hard they tried. And, reading between the lines - that being involved with Geralt to that extent would no doubt result in Jaskier being taken from him again. Violently. _Permanently_.  
  
After a long beat he sighed, leaning back against the rocks that lined the spring’s edge, though his eyes didn’t leave Jaskier’s as he spoke.  
  
“No, it wasn’t.” He kept his tone even. Tried not to think about what the words coming out of his mouth truly meant. “It wasn’t anything more than that.”


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An understanding is reached! Got kind of derailed by childish arguments and temper tantrums and fluff but next chapter they’ll get to Yen’s, I swear!
> 
> Came back to adjust some things, I was a sleepyhead when I posted! 
> 
> ALSO the wonderful @POMPEI is translating this fic into Russian which is so amazing, here is the link!!!!! : https://ficbook.net/readfic/9109700

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Good gods, Geralt!

It was past midnight, and Geralt couldn’t sleep. Unable to quiet his thoughts, he’d ended up perched on a mossy rock, sharpening his swords. His eyes occasionally wandered over to Jaskier’s sleeping form. Ears listening carefully to the bard’s even breathing, soft sounds, and gentle murmurs, allowing himself to find some solace in their familiarity.  
  
He enjoyed watching the bard sleep. He always managed to kick his way out of the covers. Kick _Geralt_. It never seemed restful for him, was always fitful - typical, considering how energetic Jaskier was during his waking hours. Tonight, it seemed he’d been having a particularly intense dream, his eyes fluttering wildly behind closed lids and it took everything in Geralt to not reach out and -  
  
“You won’t be able to keep this lie up forever, you know.” Annika’s sharp voice rudely dragged him away from his silent reverie. He didn’t know when the witch had woken up, but she was now scrutinizing him over the dying embers of the fire.  
  
He gritted his teeth, mouth forming a thin, unamused line as he drew the whetstone along the length of his silver sword in one particularly aggressive, fluid movement.  
  
“It’s better this way.”  
  
“You’re full of shite.” She laid her head back on the coarse fabric of her pillow, gazing up at the night sky. “Destiny may not be your cup of tea, but I think you’ve learned by now that you can’t outrun it. Your bond isn’t something to be trifled with.” A sigh. “He’ll figure out the truth, one way or another.”  
  
“I’ll turn him away, then.” Geralt set the sword down, glaring at the back of her head. “And you’d do well to make sure it’s ‘or another.’”  
  
“Oh, hush. I certainly won’t be the one to tell him, but I will tell _you_ that you’re being incredibly stupid. What you no doubt consider a selfless act is actually quite the opposite - it’ll do more harm than good, in the long run.”  
  
“I’m done talking about this.”  
  
“And I’m done trying to dislodge your head from your _arse_. Take a break from your self-imposed misery and get some rest, Geralt.”  
  
“No.” It was a low growl, but the irritation it bore was half-hearted at best. “Fuck off, Annika.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, turning on her side. Listening as Geralt picked his blade back up and stalked off into the woods.

♜ ♖

Hot breath, teeth grazing his neck. Strong, capable hands burning a path down his back, tightly gripping his waist, securing him in place.  
  
A gruff voice tickling his ear, making him laugh as it murmured soft, surprisingly gentle encouragements that he couldn’t quite distinguish through the haze.  
  
He’d been pressed up against a wood-paneled wall and heard himself say something, felt his own lips move around garbled words that sounded like a request of some sort.  
  
The voice in his ear chuckled, the body behind him obliging and rotating him around, providing a new angle that allowed him to see the face attached to it; things were terribly blurred, going in and out of focus, but he could distinctly make out a wild, white mane. An amused, teasing smile. Heard a low growl as he felt himself lock his legs around a sturdy, firm waist -  
  
The world suddenly shifted around Jaskier and the wall supporting his back fell out, sending him crashing to the ground.  
  
He blinked, momentarily stunned, distant waves of pleasure evaporating - though he couldn’t really feel pain, either. Everything was fuzzy and faraway, each sensation cutting him about as deep as a dull butter knife might. It was familir, like when he’d been a passenger in Annika’s body. Seen her memories through a telescope.  
  
Blearily, sluggishly, he looked around and found he was in some sort of dungeon. Or a cave. It was dark and damp and the sight of it terrified him. A deep-rooted, cloying fear - he’d seen it before, but couldn’t quite place where or when.  
  
All he knew was that he very badly wanted to leave, to go back to that nice, happy place he’d just been unceremoniously cast out of. When he tried to move, however, he found he was once again pinned, this time to the floor.  
  
Geralt was above him, hair a halo framing his angular face. He wasn’t smiling anymore. Frowning, actually. And speaking. By the looks of it, he saying something important - brows furrowed, eyes searching Jaskier’s face for any sign of recognition.  
  
There was a certain urgency in his whole demeanor, apparent in the protective hunch of his shoulders. Hands that had just moments ago been exploring with a pleasantly slow deliberation were now applying bone-crushing pressure to his wrists, keeping them in place on the ground.  
  
The bard squinted up at the man, tried listening, but the sounds around him were still terribly warbled, Geralt’s lips moving in slow-motion. It looked like he was asking something, the same question, over and over and _over_. Jaskier vaguely made out the syllables of his own name, spoken several times, though it was distorted and _wrong_.  
  
Geralt quickly abandoned his attempts to get through to Jaskier with his voice and instead leaned down, bringing their lips together. The act instantly cleared the cotton from Jaskier’s ears, sound exploding around him with jarring impact, and he felt himself instinctively return the kiss.  
  
The Witcher pulled away, looking relieved. There was something else, something incredibly sincere behind his expression. Not lustful, but...  
  
“Jaskier, how do you _really_ feel about - “  
  
Everything went black. 

♜ ♖

Jaskier shot up, eyes wide, trying to hear the last part of the question. He remembered the dream all too well. Every bloody detail. Geralt’s tone had been deadly serious. A bit manic, _pressing_ him, as though everything depended on the answer.  
  
And that look on his face, hovering above Jaskier in that horrible cave, had been so impossibly _soft_. Despite the fact that the Witcher bluntly informed him nothing had come of their tryst - tone implying that it was one encounter that wouldn’t be happening again - he couldn’t shake the sneaking suspicion that Geralt was holding something back.  
  
He glared at the other man’s bedroll, intent on finding answers here and _now_ , and found it empty. Annika had been asleep in hers, though at his sudden movements she stretched like a cat and scowled at him.  
  
“What’s got your knickers in a twist?”  
  
Jaskier got his breathing back under control, finding it difficult - the previously pleasant steam had turned oppressive, the air around them heavy with moisture.  
  
“It’s nothing. Well, actually, I think I saw...” he scanned the rest of the clearing, blinking the sleep out of his eyes. “Wh-where’s Geralt?”  
  
“Off taking his pent-up aggression out on unsuspecting monsters again, no doubt.” Annika surmised, squinting up at the sun poking out from behind the mountain. “I thought we were leaving at first light.”  
  
“We are. Get moving.”  
  
Jaskier had stood and put his hands on his lower back, twisting around to ease out the residual stiffness from sleeping on the forest floor - the familiar voice at his ear had him yelping, nearly jumping out of his skin.  
  
He whirled around and saw Geralt, a single splatter of blood across his cheek. His fist was closed around a bundle of feathers, which were attached to the very _dead_ head of a full-grown griffin.  
  
“Good gods, Geralt, don’t _do_ that! You know I hate when you...who, uh...” Jaskier hopped gracelessly away as black blood splattered from the gaping hole of its neck, inches away from his feet. “Who’s your friend?”  
  
Geralt glanced down at the decapitated head in question and grunted noncommittally before trudging over to Roach and securing it to her saddle.  
  
They packed up the rest of the camp expediently, though Jaskier found he couldn’t take his eyes off Geralt. There was something terribly off about him; after their conversation in the hot spring, he’d been eerily silent. It was a far cry from the man Jaskier had seen in his dream, from the tender touches and playful smiles.  
  
Not to mention how exhausted he looked - he’d been awake when Jaskier had fallen asleep, and gone when he woke up. The evidence that he hadn’t slept at all was in his eyes, specifically the dark circles beneath them. He was wearing a black cloak and its hood cast long shadows across his face.  
  
Before they set off he cornered Geralt, hands on his hips, mouth curved in an irritated little frown.  
  
“Ger - ”  
  
He hadn’t even gotten the first half of the word out before Geralt pushed past him, refusing to make eye contact. “Not now, Jaskier. We’ve already lost enough daylight.”  
  
Jaskier hurried behind him, flustered at being ignored - it turned into full-blown anger when Geralt took Roach’s reins and started guiding the party out of the clearing, not sparing a single glance back at the irate bard.  
  
They’d made it about halfway up the mountain on their first day, and from there they discovered several narrow paths skirting around it. They were lined by steep drop-offs into the trees and rocks below.  
  
Around midday, Jaskier decided he’d had enough of Geralt’s ridiculously aloof attitude. He stomped over to him, having to quicken his pace to keep up.  
  
“How do I really feel about _what_ , Geralt?”  
  
Geralt tilted his head slightly, glancing down at Jaskier in confusion. “How do you...wait, what?”  
  
At least he’d finally gotten the man to make eye contact, though he wasn’t exactly sure where to go from there. That was the only sentence he’d heard in the dream, and it remained a puzzling enigma.  
  
“Last night. We were in a cave, or a dungeon, and - and you kept asking me to tell you how I _felt_ about something.”  
  
Geralt stopped walking. And frowned, placing his palm on Jaskier’s forehead. He was pleasantly warm, but not feverish.  
  
“What the fuck are you talking about, Jaskier?”  
  
The bard bristled and maneuvered out from under Geralt’s hand, his back to the cliff they’d been walking along. Their whole party had stopped, stalling on a particularly slender path.  
  
“I’m - I don’t have a blasted _fever_ , Geralt! It happened in my dream, only I don’t think it was a dream at all - more of a memory, and we were...” he trailed off, thinking specifically of the first half of the dream and blushing furiously.  
  
But Geralt’s demeanor had changed completely. His posturing suddenly became very tense, jaw clenched. The question had finally registered in his mind - from that night, in Annika’s lair. If Jaskier had seen that then he might have also seen what happened next, the fact that their confession had broken the curse, that it was a confession of _true_...  
  
“We were what?”  
  
_Hot breath, low growl, legs wrapped around_ \- the bard shook his head stubbornly, once again finding himself unable to say it out loud.  
  
“What were we doing, Jaskier? What exactly did you see?”  
  
\- _teeth grazing his neck, strong hands_ \- “ _Exactly_?” Jaskier’s voice was raised a few octaves as he spoke. He stole a glance at Annika, who shrugged. _Helpful_. “Wh-wh- _why_ on earth do you need me to - “  
  
“Because I need to know what you know, Jaskier!” Geralt barked, unable to keep the harsh edge out of his voice. He’d prepared for this, had steeled himself for the moment the bard found out the truth, but he hadn’t expected it to happen so soon. “Fucking _tell_ me - “  
  
“Y-you need me to say it out loud - fine! I saw us having sex, Geralt! There, I _said_ it! Are you bloody happy now? We were going at it and it was _lovely_!” He wasn’t sure why he also shouted that last part, but once he got going it was rather difficult to stop, especially with Geralt pushing and _pushing_. “And you - ”  
  
Geralt cut him off suddenly, confused at the outburst. “ _That’s_ what you saw? Not...” he shook his head, looking somewhat relieved.  
  
That feeling quickly vanished, however, when he saw the bard was pacing back and forth along the ledge now, boots sending a spray of pebbles over its edge.  
  
“Wait, Jaskier, it was a misunderstanding, I thought - will you come _here_ , away from the fucking - “  
  
“I am _so_ glad I decided to tag along. This is delightful.” Annika mused to Roach from the sidelines, watching the argument unfold. Snacking on an apple she’d pilfered from the pack and offering a bite to their four-legged companion.  
  
And Jaskier was still on a roll, with Geralt trying to rein him back in.  
  
“ - and _you_ said there was nothing more to it but I know that’s not true, I could feel it, and I can tell you’re lying about _something_ \- “  
  
The Witcher took a step forward, ducking as Jaskier’s hands, that had been gesticulating wildly in the air, nearly whacked him in the face. He growled, trying to snatch one, but Jaskier backtracked another step.  
  
“And rather than tell me the truth you’re being distant and cagey and - “  
  
Jaskier’s voice faltered a bit and despite his comically large eyes, his scandalized expression, he sounded hurt.  
  
Geralt was unable to maintain his harsh tone after that. “Fuck, I’m sorry. All right? Just come away from the ledge, before - “  
  
“Before _what_?” Jaskier finally looked down at where he’d ended up standing and for some reason, Geralt’s sudden, painfully obvious concern only fueled the fire. He stomped petulantly on the stone, pointedly waving his arms when nothing happened. “Before stupid Jaskier falls off a fucking cliff? Gets himself killed _again_? I’ll have you know, I am very, _very_ in-tune with my surroundings, I think I’d notice if - “  
  
He was abruptly interrupted by a loud crack beneath their feet. Geralt cursed and reached out to him - at the same time Jaskier made to grab Geralt, catching the arm the other man had offered at an awkward angle, accidentally pulling a bit too hard.  
  
They ended up throwing each other _completely_ off-balance just as the stone beneath them broke off, bringing the two men with it.  
  
Jaskier shrieked and Geralt tried catching the side of the ledge but found he was too tangled up in fucking clumsy, gangly limbs, the bard clinging to him for dear life as they fell.  
  
He barely managed to cast a sign before they collided with the rocky, grassy knoll below. 

♜ ♖

Jaskier had squeezed his eyes shut, preparing himself for impact, but none came. He shifted and found he was currently sprawled atop something soft. Softer than rock, at least. And warm.  
  
One eye cracked open, looked down and saw...Geralt. Geralt, beneath him. Staring up at him, blinking slowly, lips parted slightly. Hair splayed out, shockingly light against the black, woolen hood cushioning his head. The distance in his eyes was gone, replaced by a gentler, careful expression.  
  
He opened his mouth to speak, but Geralt beat him to it.  
  
“You’re not stupid, Jaskier. But you are a fucking idiot.”  
  
The bard laughed, giddy from adrenaline. They were surrounded by the crackling amber energy of Geralt’s fading barrier. “And you’re a lying arse.”  
  
A nod, followed by an apologetic half-smile. “I _am_ sorry, but...” The smile slowly ebbed away. “It’s more complicated than you know.”  
  
“I’m starting to get that.” Jaskier breathed. “Though at the moment, I _really_ don’t care.”  
  
Geralt went to dispute that, was shifting beneath him to move, put some space between them, when Jaskier leaned in and kissed him. He tensed, about to gently turn the bard down, when Jaskier’s familiar scent flooded his nostrils. The familiar taste of the other man on his tongue, both working together like a drug that had him pressing their bodies closer, deepening the kiss.  
  
“Are you still alive down there? I am _not_ sacrificing another fucking decade.” Annika peered over the ledge, Roach’s reins in her hands. When she spied them through the trees, she rolled her eyes. “And we’re back to tonsil-diving, I see. Just can’t keep up with you two.”  
  
Her voice was enough to pull Geralt from his trance. He put his hands firmly on Jaskier’s shoulders, drawing him back.  
  
“Gods. That was just out of curiosity, but _now_ I understand how we managed to break a curse with...well, _that_.” Jaskier’s lips were bright pink, eyes wide, looking adorably dazed.  
  
“It wasn’t - “ Geralt frowned, shaking his head. “Doesn’t matter - we can’t do this. Jaskier, you fucking died. For _me_.”  
  
“One thing has nothing to do with the other, Geralt - ”  
  
Geralt sat up, supporting Jaskier’s back with his arm, propping him up on his lap.  
  
“It has _everything _to do with it. You’ll always be in danger, while we’re together.” Geralt glared at the cliff they’d just fallen from. “And this will only end badly. So it’s not...going to work.”  
  
“Is that why you’ve been avoiding me like the bloody _plague_? What kind of shit logic...” Jaskier noticed the way the other man’s lips quirked at that and continued, encouraged by the fact that they were finally _talking_ , rather than arguing and awkwardly skirting around one another. “Look, I may not remember much of what happened - and I won’t keep pushing you to tell me. But as soon as I have all my memories back, you’re going to have to let me make that decision on my own.” He extended a hand out to Geralt. “All right?”  
  
He hadn’t expected that. Fucking Jaskier - always surprising him. Stubbornly closing whatever distance Geralt had been trying to put between them, even when he had no recollection of their relationship, even when he was faced with the fact that they had been doomed from the start.  
  
Geralt sighed heavily, taking the bard’s hand and shaking it. Knowing the act might come back to haunt him later, but finding himself unable to resist the sweet, open, _reassuring_ face before him.__


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to the plot! And a lil Jaskier side quest that’s going to link up with the main story! This fic is a literal realm of chaos, but I hope you enjoy it all the same!!! :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yen: there is no possible way for you to fuck things up any more than you already have  
> Jaskier: hold my beer

After they shook hands, it was as if a weight had been lifted. Jaskier hopped off Geralt’s lap, offering him his hand - and a small, cheeky smile - once more, though this time it was to help him up off the ground.  
  
“Why are you both smiling? Just how do you idiots think you’re getting out of there?” Annika shouted down at them. She had gotten on her knees and was glaring over the ledge, blonde curls hanging in her face. “Do you have a plan that doesn’t involve plummeting another twenty feet, or should I take the horse and your disgusting griffin head and fuck off?”  
  
Geralt let out a threatening growl, cursing her under his breath - Jaskier cupped his hands around his mouth and called back up to her.  
  
“Geralt doesn’t very much like that plan! Can’t you...I dunno, throw us a rope or something?”  
  
“Did you fall on your _head_? Where the hell am I going to get a rope? You spent all the coin on wine and new clothes!”  
  
“You - I feel like you’re not really trying to help, you’re just using this as an excuse to be rude!”  
  
She made a nasty face and disappeared. Jaskier let out an exasperated sigh, putting his hands on his hips and squinting around the small grove they’d crashed into. It was surrounded by more steep drop-offs, with no visible way to get back up to the path.  
  
“Great. _Fantastic_. Wha - what are you doing, Geralt?”  
  
Geralt was standing at the base of the cliff, hands searching for small divots to grab onto. He tested his weight on one, nodding when it didn’t give.  
  
“We can climb this.”  
  
“ _We_?”  
  
Jaskier _so_ did not appreciate the wolfish grin that elicited from the other man. “You’re not afraid of heights, are you? I’ll add it to the list: succubi, spiders, thin mattresses - ”  
  
“Well, _no_ , but I certainly don’t go out of my way to - hang on, I’m not _afraid_ of succubi, Geralt. I was suffering from the emotional trauma of being used as _bait_ for one - “  
  
A large hand clapped on his back, steering him towards the massive rock wall despite his spluttered protests.  
  
“Come on, Jaskier. I won’t let you fall.”  
  
Despite the wicked amusement on Geralt’s face, Jaskier knew he meant it.  
  
The way up was slow and tedious. They climbed side by side, Geralt keeping up with Jaskier’s pace, patiently instructing him where to put his hands and feet. When they’d made it halfway up, something soft hit Jaskier in the face.  
  
“Wha - _hey_! Is that my tunic?” A fairly undignified noise escaped his lips when he recognized another article of clothing. “Are those my _drawers_?”  
  
He realized that Annika had tightly tied together several shirts and pants, fashioning a rope. Following the line up, he saw her face glaring down at him once more.  
  
“Well don’t just _gawk_ at me. Grab on.”  
  
Jaskier looked to Geralt, who nodded. He hadn’t broken a sweat during their climb, somehow, while the bard’s hands were _unbearably_ clammy, threatening to slip at any given moment.  
  
Reluctantly, he grabbed onto his own _underclothes_ \- thank you, Annika - and started shimmying up. She’d secured it to something, as he could see both of her hands, fingers curling over the edge of the cliff. Geralt continued climbing up, moving faster now, though he was careful not to pass Jaskier. Just in case.  
  
By the time they made it up, Jaskier decided that if he didn’t have one before, he most _certainly_ had developed a healthy fear of heights after this debacle. He flung himself onto the damp, mossy floor, chest heaving; Geralt following shortly after, hoisting him up, dragging him back to the path where Roach and Annika were waiting.  
  
“ _Away_ from the ledge.”  
  
Jaskier was about to fire off a scathing retort when he caught the small, playful smirk dancing across Geralt’s lips. He snorted, shaking his head and following the man as they resumed their journey.  
  
Though there was still so much he didn’t know, so much left unresolved, it was nice to have Geralt back to teasing him, conversation and banter flowing _almost_ as easily as before Jaskier’s unfortunate, ill-timed amnesia.  
  
There was the small matter of the kiss - the memory of it, how right it had felt, playing on an endless loop in Jaskier’s head. He valiantly fought it back, forcing himself to remember their deal; Geralt was in a delicate state, had been ready to cut all ties in some misguided effort to keep Jaskier safe, and he didn’t want to ruin the progress they’d made.  
  
The rest of their expedition went by quickly, with suspiciously few bumps in the road. The small, narrow paths actually made things easier, shortening their trip by at least half a day. By the time they made it to Yen’s city, it was early evening.  
  
As soon as they passed through its gates, a raven landed on Geralt’s shoulder. He growled and tried to shake it off but it started flapping its wings, cawing urgently in his face.  
  
After a moment, Geralt realized what was happening and groaned, watching as the bird took off down the street, turning a corner. “Fucking Yen. Let’s go.”  
  
“ _Yen_? Wh-where?”  
  
Without another word he started following it, Jaskier and Annika looking horribly confused but hustling after him all the same. They navigated their way through several alleyways - the raven waited patiently for them at each turn, until finally they rounded one last corner.  
  
Yen looked pristine among the dirt and grime of the city’s backstreets. The raven was perched on her wrist - as soon as she saw them it cawed one last time before exploding in a shower of iridescent blue light.  
  
Jaskier watched in horror as a tiny bird skull dropped to the cobblestone floor with a soft _clink_. “Oh _gods_ , what did...did you just _kill_ it?”  
  
“Hello to you, too, Jaskier. You look like you’ve been in the wars.” Yen regarded him with a small, affectionate smile. He returned it, but found himself unable to move past the exploding-bird-thing - he told her as much.  
  
“It’s an enchantment. Useful when you’re trying to lurk about undetected. Not that you...” cool, violet eyes settled on Annika, who met her gaze with equal intensity. “ _three_ would know anything about subtlety. How’s the arm, kitten?”  
  
Annika smirked. “Healed enough to break that perfect nose of yours again, you - “  
  
“ _Yen_.” Geralt silenced Annika with a harsh glare, moving until he was standing between the two sorceresses. “How did you know we were coming?”  
  
“Really, Geralt, how does it shock you every time?” A sigh. “Doesn’t matter - you shouldn’t have come, anyway. The arch duke’s offering a pretty penny to anyone who can bring you lot in, dead or alive. Didn’t you see the noticeboard? All of your faces are on there, though the drawings aren’t very accurate. They gave Jaskier a _ridiculous_ hat.”  
  
Jaskier gasped, breezing right past the fact that there was currently a price on their heads. “What _kind_ of hat?”  
  
“Pink, with a feather. You’ve also got a little mustache.“  
  
“Oh.” Jaskier stroked his chin thoughtfully. “That doesn’t sound too bad, actually. How does it look on - “  
  
Geralt abruptly, _impatiently_ cleared his throat, drawing their attention back to him. “So Jannick got to him first. Piece of shit.”  
  
Yen nodded. “Claims you ransacked his keep. Stole a prisoner, several family heirlooms, all of his wine...blew up the door of his guest bathroom...oh yes, and tried to _murder_ him and his son in cold blood. Am I right to assume at least half of that is true?”  
  
The effect was immediate - all three of them grew very quiet, shrugging noncommittally. Jannick had obviously twisted the story to his own advantage, but even without his exaggerations, the truth - from an outsider’s point of view - certainly didn’t sound _great_.  
  
Geralt was the least hung up on it, though. He rummaged around in one of their packs, eventually producing the book and handing it to Yen. She frowned and flipped through it, face scrunching up as she skimmed through a page at random.  
  
“What is this, Geralt?”  
  
“Proof of his corruption.” Geralt grunted, stepping back beside Jaskier. “He’s imprisoning and executing some of his own guards in an effort to save face. I’ll be...returning a favor by exposing him.”  
  
She closed the book with a sigh. “Very well. I’ll look into it tonight, see what I can do. In the meantime, you need to lay low. Keep your noses clean. I’ll put you up in an inn - the gentleman who runs it owes me a favor, so we can count on his discretion. It’s not the... _finest_ establishment, in quite a seedy part of the city, but I’m afraid you’ll just have to make do.”  
  
“Thank you, Yen.”  
  
“Happy to help. _Again_. I’ll go on ahead and let him know - frolicking about with three known fugitives isn’t the _best_ method of preserving one’s reputation. You understand. So, I’ll get two rooms - “  
  
“Three.” Geralt corrected, somewhat awkwardly.  
  
She raised a brow, glancing pointedly between him and Jaskier. “Three, then - “  
  
“Oh, _fuck_ off! Yen, too?” Jaskier spluttered suddenly, cheeks going pink. “How is it that _everyone_ we’ve _ever_ crossed paths with seems to know the sordid details of our affair, Geralt?”  
  
Yen gave Geralt a questioning look, and he heaved a sigh. “Don’t ask. It’s a whole fucking thing. I’ll explain later.”  
  
“Very well.” She stole a concerned glance at Jaskier, who was now muttering under his breath, before conjuring a portal. “The inn is in the southeast quarter of the city - there’s a rusted old horseshoe hanging out front. Can’t miss it.”  
  
“Wait.” Geralt stopped her as she went to step through the portal. “Uh, tell Ciri to come see me. She’s...probably worried. Been a few days.”  
  
The sorceress’s lips curved into a small, knowing smile - Ciri wasn’t the only one fretting, it seemed, if Geralt’s fidgeting was anything to go by.  
  
“Of course, Geralt. She’ll be by in the morning.”  
  
With that, she left, and the trio set off to find the inn, using their hoods and the extensive network of alleyways for cover. 

♜ ♖

Yen had _definitely_ not been exaggerating about the state of the place, Jaskier thought, crinkling his nose as they sat at a corner table and ate what was referred to as stew but more closely resembled _slop_. The mead was stale, and they were surrounded by countless drunks, some harmlessly nodding off into their drinks while others looked far more dangerous.  
  
A group of large, muscular men were playing five finger fillet at a table of their own, blind drunk and bellowing every time one of them stabbed themselves. Jaskier was very sure he’d seen the tip of a pinky on the ground at their feet, which was...lovely. Even lovelier was the fact that none of them seemed too concerned with its loss. Or _blood_ loss, for that matter.  
  
Eventually, one sliced off his own thumb and howled, punching the man next to him. The right side of the tavern quickly erupted into a flurry of fists and swords, which was when Annika abruptly pushed out her chair, its legs screeching against the wood floor, and stood.  
  
“Well, I promised myself I’d turn in _before_ the nightly bloodbath. See you in the morning. Don’t let the bedbugs bite.”  
  
That last part was directed at Jaskier who clutched his chest, horrified eyes finding Geralt’s as she left. “ _Bedbugs_ , Geralt?”  
  
“Probably.”  
  
It was too much - Jaskier suddenly decided he needed air. And distance from the chaotic atmosphere of the inn. He pushed out his chair as well, grabbing an apple from the plate and shoving it in his pocket.  
  
His anxiety was worsened by the fact that the place ended up having only two rooms available. Of _course_. While they had reached an agreement, a truce, he found he could _not_ stop revisiting that kiss. It hadn’t curbed his curiosity - if anything, it had fueled it. Satisfying one need had resulted in several more springing up in its place, and it was infernally distracting.  
  
“I’m - I’m going to check on Roach. Make sure the other horses aren’t...giving her a hard time. You know, as horses do.” _Gods_.  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, though Jaskier caught the way he quickly hid his fond smile by taking a long, drawn-out sip of ale. “Try not to mouth off to anyone else. I’ve already had to defend your honor once tonight.”  
  
“Can’t take me anywhere, can you?” Jaskier teased, stealing a glance at the brutish drunk Geralt was referring to. He’d been hassling Jaskier, didn’t take kindly to the fact that the bard’s rejection was in the form of a very insulting song, and was now sporting a vicious black eye. Geralt had responded instinctively, despite Jaskier’s protests -  
  
The thought had Jaskier’s mind going haywire again and he quickly hurried out to the stables, sighing in relief when he was met with a brisk nighttime breeze. And horse smell, which was actually far more pleasant than the vile scent of debauchery that permeated the air of their temporary residence.  
  
Jaskier was petting the spot between Roach’s ears, telling her a story - cutting the apple up with his dagger and sharing it with her - when he heard a loud clatter. He poked his head out of Roach’s little room and noticed the gate had been opened. He distinctly remembered closing it.  
  
“Geralt?” His voice wavered uncertainly in the silence of the stables, met only by the occasional whinny. He took a cautious step, scanning shadowed corners for any signs of non-equine life, armed with a very small blade and the remnants of his apple. “Is that you? Hello-o? Please don’t jump out at me.”  
  
Only silence followed, and after a moment he decided he’d probably had too much to drink, was imagining things. As soon as he turned to continue his talk with Roach, however, a massive hand latched onto his shoulder, spinning him back around.  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened as he was faced with _the_ most imposing silhouette he’d ever seen. Easily twice his own size. Face obscured by shadows, arms and legs as thick as tree trunks. A shiny, balding head practically touching the ceiling.  
  
Immediately, the bard started babbling, and went to wield the dagger - accidentally brandished the wrong hand, ended up threatening the figure with an apple core.  
  
“ _Bollocks_ \- ”  
  
“Settle down, Jaskier.” The stranger chuckled and took a step forward, into the light - as soon as Jaskier saw his face, heard his voice, he let out a loud groan. Fear quickly morphed into irritation. “I’m just here to talk. We’re all a bit hurt, you know. Heard you were back in town last week, but you didn’t even have the decency to pay us a visit.”  
  
“Whatever it is, I’m not bloody interested.” Jaskier tried to nimbly sidle around him, but the hand was back, easily lifting the bard off the ground and placing him back in his original spot. “Put me _down_! Honestly, it’s been _years_ , don’t you have anything better to do? How is it you’re all still hung up on - ”  
  
As he spoke, he made _one_ last attempt to get around the monstrosity before him - he was handled with far less care this time, the man grabbing his collar and slamming him bodily into the wall of Roach’s stall.  
  
“Quit wriggling about, I’m not here to rough you up.” At that, whilst struggling to _breathe_ , Jaskier shot him a scathing look that said he begged to differ. “I’m _not_. And it’s not a matter of interest - you owe us. Time to pay up.”  
  
Pawing stubbornly at the meaty wrist currently fisted in his collar, Jaskier’s voice was a strangled hiss. “You - will you _unhand_ me? I’ll gladly pay what I owe. In _coin_.“  
  
The hand relented, allowed his feet to touch the ground once more, though thick fingers remained balled up in the front of his shirt for good measure.  
  
“Your coin isn’t what the boss is after. You remember the terms, don’t you? One job and we’ll leave you alone. Debt repaid in full. Speaking of, you’ve been getting cozy with the arch duke, haven’t you?”  
  
“ _Cozy_? No, I’d hardly call...” Jaskier trailed off, deciding it wasn’t in his best interest to divulge the fact that there was a hefty price on his head. _Especially_ not to the hardened criminal. “Uh, yes. We’re dear friends.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? He put bounties out on all his ‘dear friends?’” _Shit_. “Still a liar, I see. That’s good.” He prodded Jaskier’s left arm with his free hand. “Last we heard you had a bum arm, but it looks nice and ready for a bit of freelance work.”  
  
Jaskier self-consciously jerked the limb away. “What am I, prize cattle? Are you going to get to the point, or shall I go ahead and show you my - ”  
  
Suddenly, a large wooden beam connected with the back of the man’s skull, though the impact had it splitting in half. The man didn’t fall, either - he simply cursed and turned around, yanking his captive along with dizzying force.  
  
Geralt was standing at the entrance of the stall. Scanning the bard for any signs of injury. When he realized Jaskier’s assailant hadn’t so much as flinched at the attack, he glanced between the broken beam in his hand and the giant, looking vaguely impressed.  
  
“You’re fucking massive. What are they feeding you?”  
  
The man didn’t move to draw a weapon of any sort - instead, he stepped up to Geralt, making a point of tilting his head down to meet the other man’s eyes. He stood at least a foot taller. A foot wider, too. “What’s it to you?”  
  
“You’re right, I don’t care. Don’t suppose you’ll make this easy for me and just let the bard go? Or do I need to cut off those meat cleavers you call hands,” Geralt took a step closer as well, allowing his eyes to slowly, deliberately travel the length of the colossus before him. “you fucking ogre of a man?”  
  
A snort. “Run along, mutant. This is official business. Doesn’t concern you.”  
  
“Actually, it does.” A pointed glare at Jaskier, who gave him a sheepish little wave. “ _Unfortunately_.”  
  
“Heh, _Geralt_ , wonderful timing! Meet, uh...” Jaskier studied the thug’s face for a moment. “Gods, I don’t know. ‘Generic Henchman?’ Anyway, he was just leaving - “  
  
The giant released him with a frown. “Are you joking? We’ve known each other for years. You don’t know my name?” Jaskier scampered a few paces back, towards Geralt, offering an apologetic little shrug. “It’s _Wade_. You’re such a twat.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes. He’d had enough of...whatever this was. “I think it’s time for you to fuck off.”  
  
Generic Henchman - _‘Wade’_ \- glared at him. “Intention wasn’t to hurt him. Just making sure he knows where he stands.” Turned to Jaskier once more before leaving, Geralt watching the exchange like a hawk. “We’ll be in touch with details. Don’t go disappearing again. Pompous arse.”  
  
After he had lumbered out of the stables - cursing Jaskier’s insensitivity as he did - the bard shook his head in disbelief, massaging his neck with one hand. “Yikes. Can you _believe_ that, Geralt? Cornering and throttling me, yet _I’m_ the bad guy for not remembering his bloody name?”  
  
Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, saying nothing. Looking _very_ unamused.  
  
“Okay, good talk.” One very dramatic fake yawn, followed by an equally fake stretch. “Well, I’m gonna turn in, I’m positively knackered and - ”  
  
As Jaskier made to _casually_ waltz away, Geralt crowded him back against the wall, glaring down at him.  
  
“Question, Jaskier.”  
  
“Yes, Geralt?” Jaskier gazed up at the Witcher, all false, doe-eyed innocence. “What’s on your mind?”  
  
“Did you get involved with a _fucking_ crime lord?”


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two awkward idiots and a very observant Ciri! Just wanted to post this lil snippet tonight, before I’m dragged out and forced to socialize :)

“A gang? How the fuck did that happen?”  
  
They’d made their way back to the inn and were now sitting across from each other at a small, intimate table. The place had quieted down considerably - only a few stray inebriates remained, nodding off into their cups.  
  
Pushing aside all irritation, Geralt procured a stiff drink for Jaskier, noticing how shaken up he was behind all the forced bravado. His hands trembled as he raised it to his lips.  
  
“We-e-ell, okay, let’s not jump to any nasty conclusions. And that’s such a harsh word, isn’t it? It wasn’t exactly the plan, you know, getting tangled up with, ah...an underground... _organization_ of...gentlemen who _might_ dabble in - “  
  
“A gang, Jaskier.”  
  
“Okay, okay, _yes_ , Geralt. A _gang_. I got involved with a gang. Made one stupid mistake and now I’m paying for it. Happy?”  
  
“No, I’m not.” Geralt deadpanned, taking a swig of his own drink. Making a face. “This tastes like shit. So who is it? Which ‘organization?’”  
  
Jaskier hemmed and hawed as he thought back. He’d spent a great deal of time in the city but it had been awhile ago, and the details were a little fuzzy.  
  
“Their boss is a fellow who goes by the name of...Forle? Maybe?”  
  
“‘Forle?’ He an elf?”  
  
“Yeah, he’s...ah, Four-finger Forle! That was it. Clearly the knife game is _very_ popular here.” Jaskier nodded towards the bloodied table to their left. “I’d never do that to my little angels.”  
  
He wiggled his fingers, which earned him a slightly frustrated, slightly amused huff. “What does he have on you?”  
  
“Um, it’s a long story. My time here was - let’s say _colorful_.” At that, Geralt raised a brow. “Yes, yes. Plenty of profligating. I was in a...a bad way. Fooled around with all the wrong people, made all the wrong enemies. Ended up getting jumped by some thugs. I barely got away with my life and it...well, it scared me, Geralt. I didn’t know where else to turn, so I went to him for protection. I guess there was some _slight_ miscommunication on the terms, though.”  
  
Geralt leaned forward, frowning. His hands were throttling his drink, furious at the thought of Jaskier, scared, _alone_. So threatened that he felt he had to resort to getting involved with a doubtlessly dangerous criminal.  
  
“I don’t understand. Why didn’t you come to me for help, Jaskier? I would have protected you.”  
  
The bard gnawed on his lower lip, suddenly not making eye contact. “It was right after our, uh...tiff. On the mountain. I didn’t think...”  
  
“Oh...” Geralt relented his grip on the mug, glaring into its murky contents. “You still could have. Come to me, I mean.”  
  
“I know.” Something struck Jaskier then, and the discomfort on his face vanished, replaced with a terribly sly look. “You know - and I’m _just_ putting it out there - in this scenario, among _countless_ others, I likely would have been a great deal safer with you around.”  
  
“Bullshit. You would have found your way into trouble, with or without me.”  
  
Jaskier smirked triumphantly - that was _just_ the response he’d been expecting.  
  
“If that’s so, what’s the sense in choosing ‘without?’”  
  
Fuck. He had Geralt there. “Shut up and drink your liquor.”  
  
But Jaskier knew the seed had been planted; Geralt’s expression grew thoughtful as he downed the rest of his drink.  
  
They spent the next half hour talking, thinking of ways for Jaskier to get out of this situation. The giant man - Wade - had said Jaskier owed them one job, the details of which would be explained further during their next meeting. It would buy them a little time to figure out a solution, at least.  
  
Eventually, they decided to think more on it in the morning - this left them with nothing to distract themselves from the looming prospect of having to sleep together, the awkward tension returning with a vengeance.  
  
When Geralt unlocked their room, they both froze simultaneously in the threshold of the door, eyes falling on the single mattress in the far corner.  
  
“I don’t know what I expected. Um, but, th - that’s all right, right?” Jaskier cursed his nervous stammering, entering the room and peering into the closet as though it might contain an extra bed. “If - if _not_ , I’ll take the - “  
  
Geralt cut him off, closing and locking the door behind him. “I’ll take the floor.”  
  
“ _No_ , this is silly. We’re full-grown _adults_. I think we can be...uh, mature about this. You know. Sleeping together.” He froze, backtracking, shaking his head vigorously. “N-not like...I mean sleeping in the same _bed_. Here, I’ll make a pillow wall!”  
  
Geralt was suddenly reminded of their first night in the arch duke’s castle; Jaskier had insisted he sleep on the bed then, too. Had also suggested a pillow wall. It brought about a sad, empty feeling in his chest, as he watched the bard fashion a little down divider, repeating the exact same scenario - practically word for word.  
  
For some reason, it hurt. Turned an otherwise pleasant memory into a burden.  
  
Jaskier stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest once he’d finished. “ _Geralt_ , the floor is disgusting. There’s...well, at least I _hope_ that’s dirt. I refuse to believe you’ve _ever_ slept somewhere so dubious.”  
  
“You’d be surprised.”  
  
It took a bit more convincing but finally Geralt relented, grudgingly getting into his designated side of the bed. It had been pushed up against the wall and Jaskier awkwardly clambered over him to get to the other side of the pillows, apologizing _profusely_ when he slipped, his elbow finding its way into a very uncomfortable spot.  
  
Geralt snorted and without thinking, effortlessly lifted Jaskier up and over, plopping him down onto the other side of the bed. He regretted it immediately, noticing the adorably familiar blush the act had elicited.  
  
“Right, yeah. Right. Probably should’ve gotten in first. That’s on me.” Jaskier muttered, getting under the covers and pulling them all the way up to his chin. He was laying down now, but his body was stiff as a board, staring straight up at the ceiling.  
  
“Relax, Jaskier. I don’t bite.” His voice was a deep rumble, an amused smile on his lips. “Often.”  
  
“You are wicked, Geralt.” Jaskier huffed a miserable sigh, poking his head up. Large blue eyes peering at the other man over the pillows that separated them. “Geralt?”  
  
A tired groan. “What?”  
  
“Do you really think I’ll remember everything? And if I do, wouldn’t that...I dunno, cancel out Annika’s spell? Wh-what if I - ”  
  
“I won’t let that happen.” Geralt said abruptly, not wanting Jaskier to finish that thought. He rolled over until his back was to the other man, raising a hand and extinguishing the candles, cloaking the room in darkness. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

♜ ♖

The next morning, Geralt woke to a weight across his chest and legs. He growled and peered down, but his foul mood was tempered when he saw that just like last time, the pillow wall had done very little to keep Jaskier’s violently unpredictable limbs at bay. There was an arm splayed across his chest and two legs tangled dangerously around his own.  
  
His face softened further when he realized the bard had instinctively nestled his head in the crook of Geralt’s neck, soft breaths puffing against sensitive skin. The bard shifted fractionally, giving Geralt a clear view of his face and he couldn’t help himself, went to brush a stray hair. Stopped short when he realized Jaskier’s breathing was uneven.  
  
Dreaming, it seemed. His face looked peaceful and _happy_ , which would have been sweet if not for the fact that his cheeks were flushed and he was making some very obscene sounds. Judging by the familiar pressure on Geralt’s thigh, it was another _graphic_ dream.  
  
If his mutation allowed it, he would most definitely have blushed at some of the words that came out of the other man’s mouth.  
  
“Fucking hell.” Geralt hissed, trying to disentangle himself without waking the bard. Jaskier only clung harder, like a fucking starfish, limbs snaking around him and allowing for very little movement. He abandoned his attempts to slip out undetected, using his free arm to shove the other man awake. “Damn it, Jaskier, I knew this was going to - “  
  
Jaskier’s eyes opened then, dazed and sleepy. The first thing he saw was Geralt, scowling down at him, and he returned it with a petulant little frown.  
  
“Oh. Geralt. Why are you glaring? Wh-why did you wake me, I was having the nicest dream about...” he trailed off, following the other man’s unamused head jerk, saw the way his body was aggressively _spooning_ him. Let out a shriek when he noticed the _other_ thing. “Ger _alt_! Why didn’t you wake me _sooner_? Bloody hell!”  
  
He flew out of the bed, was across the room in the blink of an eye, looking absolutely mortified. Though he was clothed, they’d both slept with their clothes _on_ , he used a pillow to cover himself all the same, stammering and stuttering, unable to string a sentence together.  
  
Geralt sat up, trying to sound...well, as comforting as he could, given the circumstances. It wasn’t exactly easy on him either, considering the many filthy ways in which he would have preferred to utilize a morning like this.  
  
“Calm down. It’s fine. You just cling like a fucking drowner on fisstech in your sleep.”  
  
“Oh, that’s rich coming from the brute who _snores_ like a - like a bloody _golem_ with - “  
  
“Golems don’t snore, Jaskier. They’re not sentient.”  
  
The bard threw up his hands in exasperation, dropping the pillow as he did, though his _issue_ had passed as quickly as the pleasant dream that had brought it on.  
  
After they’d both settled down, Geralt’s tone became serious once more. “What did you dream about? Besides...the obvious.”  
  
Jaskier looked strangely crestfallen, then. “Absolutely nothing useful. Just fragments. Nice fragments, but - “  
  
He was interrupted by a light knock.  
  
“Who the hell is that?” Jaskier stomped over to the door, not quite over his rude awakening. He threw it open, ready to chew out whoever was calling on them so early, but when he saw who it was he instantly forgot all of his irritation. “Ciri!”  
  
The girl laughed as he wrapped her up in a big hug, and over his shoulder she gave Geralt a relieved little smile.  
  
“I’m so glad you’re both okay, Yen told me you looked _awful_ and I was worried that...” Ciri shook her head.  
  
“She does love pointing that out, doesn’t she?” Jaskier grumbled resentfully, earning another precious laugh.  
  
“She’ll be here soon. Told me to tell you to ‘get your lazy arses out of bed.’ And that she has a lot to catch you up on.”  
  
“Of course she did.” Geralt stood, looking slightly uncomfortable, but as soon as Jaskier had released her, Ciri bounded over and hugged him, too. He smirked, ruffling her hair. “Come on, let’s go down.”  
  
The three of them wandered downstairs, and Jaskier was relieved to find that it was too early for the rowdy crowd that had filled the place the night before. Once they’d ordered plenty of food and drink, they sat at a table, talking to pass the time until Yen arrived.  
  
“You’re both acting weird.” Ciri said after a few minutes, narrowing her eyes at them. She’d immediately picked up on the tension, noticed how far apart they were sitting. “What’s going on? You were all over each other a few days ago.”  
  
Geralt groaned internally. So fucking perceptive.  
  
“What, _really_? In front of the _child_ , Geralt?”  
  
“I’m not a child!”  
  
“It’s, uh. Different now, Ciri. Complicated.”  
  
“ _Really_? What the arse-fuck happened?” Ciri asked in comic disbelief, glancing between them - Jaskier choked on his beverage when he heard her innocent voice uttering a phrase from his personal collection of curses.  
  
Geralt gave him a scathing look, and the bard laughed nervously, patting her head. “Out of the mouths of babes, right? Where on _earth_ could she have gotten that?”  
  
“I wonder.” Geralt pretended to think on it for a moment. “Isn’t that exactly what you asked the innkeep when he told you they were out of wine last night?”  
  
“Yes, but I just wanted to know how a bloody _bar_ runs out of _wine_!” Jaskier exclaimed resentfully, quieting when he realized Geralt had tricked him into admitting his guilt. He turned to Ciri and winked. “Maybe hold off on ‘arse-fuck’ for another year or so, darling.”  
  
She giggled. “Must not be too complicated if you’re both still flirting this much.”  
  
That silenced both men, Geralt glaring daggers at her from across the table while Jaskier was suddenly very interested in the buttons on his shirt.  
  
Annika joined them shortly after, taking a seat next to Jaskier. She regarded Ciri coolly, crossing her arms over her chest.  
  
“This your kid, Geralt?”  
  
Ciri glowered at her. “My name is _Ciri_. And I’m not a kid.”  
  
“Well, _excuse_ me.” Annika took a sip of Jaskier’s drink, ignoring his protests and pulling the glass out of reach when he tried snatching it back. “You’re feisty. I like you.”  
  
“You tried to kill Jaskier and Geralt. I _don’t_ like you.”  
  
Annika chuckled. “Woe is me.”  
  
“Did you really curse an entire family, too?”  
  
Geralt glared at Annika, silently threatening her with his eyes. She ignored him as well.  
  
“Yes, I did.”  
  
“ _How_?”  
  
“By making a deal with a demon.”  
  
Just then, as Ciri interrogated the witch - trying to figure out all the juicy details - the door of the inn swung open. Geralt looked up, expecting to see Yen - instead his gaze was met with the smug smile of a tall, slender elf. He was impeccably dressed, the glove on his left hand tailored to fit a four-fingered hand.  
  
Malicious eyes scanned the place, settled on Jaskier. There was something about the way the elf looked at him that didn’t sit right with Geralt. He tensed, and the change in his demeanor had Jaskier following his gaze. As soon as he saw the figure standing in the doorway he yelped and scrambled around in his seat, knocking over several glasses, trying to hide behind Annika.  
  
“Long time no see, Jaskier.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it may be unlikely in the Witcher verse but an elven crime lord sounded so fun to write ahh


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m sorry for not posting this last night, this weekend was the anniversary of someone close to me passing <3 next chapter we’ll see what info Yen has, and Jaskier and Geralt will take part in a little shady business :P

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Forle ended up being way more yikes than I originally intended oop

The elf - Forle - sauntered casually over to their table, pulling up a chair and seating himself directly next to Jaskier and Ciri. It was bold, considering how fiercely protective Geralt was of both of them, but purposeful. A subtle power move.  
  
He had long, silver-blonde hair, the top of which was pulled back. Two neat plaits framed his face, which was all angular cheekbones and flawless, deeply tanned skin. His clothes were made from soft, fine leather - gray with maroon detailing - and his eyes were deep-set, so light they almost appeared colorless. He was strikingly handsome but there was a certain cruelty, a predatory air about him that only intensified as he regarded the bard.  
  
Someone else entered the inn - his face was obscured by a hood, but Jaskier assumed it was Wade, judging by his general girth and height. Rather than approach them he stood at the entrance with his arms crossed over his chest. He was armed with a large axe, wearing an outfit that closely followed the gray and maroon color scheme of his boss’s getup, though it was of a much simpler make.  
  
“Who’s the elf?” Annika asked suddenly, breaking the terse silence. She was devouring a leg of mutton and spat a small bone out on her plate, squinting at the newcomer. “Why’re you looking at the numbskull like that? He’s not a piece of meat. You’d best move along.”  
  
Forle acknowledged her with a fleeting, disinterested glance before turning to Jaskier. “Shut the stray up or I will.”  
  
“I’d like to see you try, you - ”  
  
Jaskier put a hand on her elbow, quieting her. His companions didn’t know what Forle was capable of, but he’d more than earned his violent, merciless reputation. And was frighteningly skilled with the two blades sheathed at his hips; Jaskier had heard they were imbued with dark magic, and their owner could move with terrifying speed as a result.  
  
So no, it was decidedly _not_ a good idea to get on his nerves this early in the game.  
  
“Annika, dear, let’s not anger the fearsome _crime lord_ right off the bat.”  
  
She relented, contenting herself with trying to melt the intruder’s face off with a scorching glare.  
  
“So, these are the fools you’ve been running with?” Forle gestured to Annika, Ciri and Geralt, though his eyes didn’t leave Jaskier as he spoke. “Terrible choice of friends, Jaskier.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “That’s fucking rich.“  
  
“Yeah, doesn’t mean much coming from you. Still an irredeemable creep, I see.” Jaskier had recovered from the shock of his entrance, though he had to work very hard to keep the nervous tremble from his voice as he spoke. “Why did you come, Forle? I thought you’d just send another one of your lackeys. I’m touched, really, that you felt you had to make a personal appearance.”  
  
Forle’s wicked smile widened, baring an array of impossibly white teeth. Cool, calculating eyes raked over the bard’s tense form. “Had to see you for myself. Make sure Wade didn’t mess up that pretty face.” His eyes traveled lower, tongue darting out and wetting his lips. Jaskier shrank back, not liking the hunger in his gaze. “Though I must say, I forgot just how pretty it is. Fear looks good on you.”  
  
Ciri and Annika blanched, while Geralt set his drink down and glared at the elf. “You want to lose an eye?”  
  
Forle leaned back in his seat, not sparing a single glance in the Witcher’s direction. “Anyway, I’ve come to fill you in on the details of the job.”  
  
“This again? I don’t suppose you’d consider forgetting my debt - you know, out of the goodness of your heart?” Jaskier asked, ignoring the horribly confused, questioning looks that Ciri and Annika were shooting him. “It’s just that I’m not really _keen_ on the concept of, you know, committing whatever doubtlessly heinous crime you’ve cooked up for me.”  
  
“I told you once before that I’ll accept _other_ forms of payment.” Forle leered at him. “My original offer still stands - I’d love to add a pretty songbird like you to my collection.”  
  
Jaskier nearly spat out the sip he’d just taken. “Wh - fuck _off_! The answer to that is still a resounding _no_ , thank you very much.”  
  
Geralt frowned, realization dawning on him as he took in the embarrassed flush of Jaskier’s cheeks, picked up on the scent of the elf’s lust, dark and cloyingly sweet.  
  
A low growl escaped the back of his throat, drawing Forle’s attention. He looked at Geralt for the first time, lips quirked in plain amusement, taking in his rigid posture, his fiercely aggressive, fiercely _protective_ stance.  
  
“Ah, where are my manners? He’s rougher around the edges than your usual type, though I can certainly see the appeal. I’m assuming this is your newest flame?” Forle winked at the growling, seething Witcher. “Down, boy.”  
  
As Jaskier went to refute that while also informing him it was none of his bloody _business_ , Geralt stabbed his fork into the table and met Forle’s sneer with a toothy, humorless grin of his own.  
  
“You’re right. The bard is mine, so I’m going to need you to back the fuck off.”  
  
Jaskier gaped at him, but quickly swallowed his shock and nodded, trying not to think about how incredibly _irresistible_ it was to hear Geralt refer to him in that way. His brain _knew_ it was for show, that the other man was claiming him in an attempt to quell whatever sick thoughts Forle was clearly entertaining. His libido, on the other hand, did not seem to get the memo.  
  
“What a delightful brute. Not that you’d be able to do a damn thing to stop me. I run this city.” Forle plucked a grape from the plate at the center of the table, popping it in his mouth. “And I always get what I want, one way or another. I just happen to need him for this job more. Count yourself lucky.”  
  
“Yes, you’re absolutely right. I’m feeling so _very_ lucky right now.” Jaskier muttered, stealing a glance at Geralt, who had shot out of his seat, reaching for his blade. He gave a very small, barely noticeable head shake, hoping it conveyed what he didn’t want to say aloud - that Forle was no joke, was monstrously skilled in combat. With a grunt, Geralt stiffly sat back down.  
  
From under the table, Jaskier felt Ciri’s little hand snake into his, pleasantly cool and comforting. He smiled and squeezed it back, voice stabilizing considerably. “Now, are you going to tell me what it is, or did you just come here to eat all our grapes and make everyone terribly uncomfortable?”  
  
“Ah, right.” Forle reached into his breast pocket, producing a small vial filled with an iridescent, milky-white liquid. He held it out in front of Jaskier’s face, though when the bard went to touch it, he nimbly snatched it back, clicking his tongue. “Patience, Jaskier. Though I do love the enthusiasm. You’re so _adorably_ eager.”  
  
Jaskier scowled at that, though he eyed the vial nervously. “What the hell is it? Some sort of potion?”  
  
“Something along those lines. You spent some time at the arch duke’s recently, didn’t you?”  
  
“Yes, but - “  
  
“Get to the fucking point.” Geralt hissed, grabbing his amulet, which had started vibrating urgently. He didn’t know what the potion did, couldn’t recognize its unusual color, but he knew it likely wasn’t anything good.  
  
“You saw his crown, yes?”  
  
“ _Yes_. Maybe?” Jaskier thought back. The man had been wearing it at the banquet, though that night in its entirety was a total blur. “But what does that - “  
  
Annika, who had been watching the exchange with narrowed eyes, spoke suddenly. “That’s a forbidden brew, you know. Illegal to make. And dangerous. You want him to steal the crown with it, don’t you?”  
  
Forle pocketed the potion once more, and the vibrations of Geralt’s amulet stopped as abruptly as they’d started. “Clever little witch.”  
  
Jaskier was incredulous, glancing between them, shaking his head. “I am _not_ doing that, and - and I’m not _drinking_ that! What does it even _do_?”  
  
“Whoever drinks this will be able to steal anything, as long as they’ve seen or touched it. That crown is solid gold, inlaid with one of the most valuable gems in the world. I want it, and I...” he waved his hand expectantly, and Jaskier’s voice was a resentful grumble.  
  
“Always get what you want. Yes, yes, we know.”  
  
“What he’s not telling you is that drinking his nasty little potion may cause permanent damage. It’s not good magic, it’s violent and unpredictable. Could even rip your spirit from your body.” Annika, back to glaring heatedly at the elf.  
  
“ _Temporarily_.” Forle corrected, smirking at the horrified gasp that escaped the bard’s lips. “I’ve spent the last few years perfecting it, though. Shouldn’t do too much harm.”  
  
Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. “I don’t like it. Why don’t you just drink the damn thing yourself?”  
  
“I haven’t seen the crown. The arch duke is a lazy, spoiled bastard. Rarely leaves his castle - “  
  
They were interrupted by a loud creak as the inn’s front door swung open. Yen stepped through, a vision of black and white, and glared at Wade as he tried blocking her way. She flicked her wrist and he was thrown bodily into the wall, the broad side of his own axe pinning him in place.  
  
As she approached the table, she took in the sight of Forle’s diabolical smile, of Jaskier’s panicked expression and Geralt’s obvious fury.  
  
“Having a little party, are we? Where was my invite?” She checked Ciri over, satisfied when she saw that the girl was unharmed, if not a little shaken up. “What’s going on here?”  
  
It seemed that Forle recognized her, because his demeanor instantly changed. He stood.  
  
“I’m afraid that’s my cue. Be at the marketplace by midnight. I’ll send someone to bring you to our base.”  
  
A slender, gloved hand came up and brushed Jaskier’s cheek. He frowned at the contact, how oddly tender it was. Somehow it only made the act more unnerving.  
  
“Don’t go far, pet. We’ll see you tonight. If I hear you’ve tipped off any guards, I’ll be forced to do some _very_ bad things. Oh, and you’re only allowed to bring one feral friend.” He glanced pointedly between Annika and Geralt. “Fair’s fair. Though I would prefer if you came alone.”  
  
“Not a fucking chance. And if you don’t remove your hand,” Geralt growled, voice dangerously low. “you’ll be changing your name to ‘No-Finger Forle.’”  
  
The hand lingered, as if daring the Witcher to make the first move. Despite all of his anger, the rage he felt upon seeing the way Jaskier flinched as long, delicate fingers caressed him, he knew violence was exactly what Forle wanted out of the exchange. The sick bastard was toying with them, knew he had an advantage - and likely more men waiting to move on them outside. Too risky, especially with Ciri and Jaskier involved.  
  
With great difficulty he stayed his hand and the elf removed his with a bored little huff.  
  
“How anticlimactic.”  
  
He nodded to Wade, who had managed to wrestle his way out from under the enchanted axe. He dutifully opened the door to the inn, and silence fell over their table as they watched the two menacing figures leave.  
  
Once again, Annika was the first to break it.  
  
“I’m confused. Does he want to jump your bones or break them?”  
  
“A little of both, I think. I’ve heard his, ah, _predilections_ are particularly sinister. And violent. Bloody sadist. As if I’d _ever_ \- “ Jaskier jumped as Geralt suddenly slammed his hands down onto the table, stood, and stormed off without a word. “Geralt? Where are you - Ger _alt_!”  
  
The Witcher went out the back door, the force he used to close it behind him shaking the whole tavern. Yen sighed and took a seat, nodding to Jaskier.  
  
“Please go fetch him for me, I’m afraid I have some bad news that you both must hear. And after, perhaps you can explain why you’re consorting with a known mob boss after I _specifically_ asked you to keep your noses clean.”


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wait that’s illegal, Jaskier!

Jaskier wandered out after Geralt, easily finding him in the stables. He was brushing Roach, a dark look on his face.  
  
“Geralt?” Jaskier hung on the gate of Roach’s stall, trying to wave to get his attention. The other man shot him a look and then resumed what he was doing without a word. “Ger _alt_. Are you okay?”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
“Not buying that.” He released the gate, opting to stand at the opposite side of Roach instead, resting his arms across her back as he watched Geralt’s gentle ministrations.  
  
When Geralt was like this, he found the best solution was to talk and talk until something clicked. It usually ended in an explosion of some sort, but even that was better than dreadful silence.  
  
“It’s just that you’re looking exceptionally pouty right now. Roach and I are very upset that you won’t tell us what’s wrong. Is it this whole gang...business? Stealing a _crown_ certainly wasn’t the task I was expecting. I thought he’d want me to - “  
  
There it was. At the mention of Forle and his _wants_ , Geralt scowled, slamming the brush down on the bench. “You failed to mention their boss has a fucking hard-on for you, Jaskier. Wants to add you to his ‘collection,’ whatever the _fuck_ that means.”  
  
Jaskier thought about that for a moment, and shrugged. It had made him uncomfortable, but it certainly wasn’t the end of the world that some creep wanted to boff him.  
  
“Well, you can’t exactly blame him, can you? I mean, look at all of _this_.” He gestured to himself, earning another scathing glare. “This is prime real estate.”  
  
“You’re not taking this seriously. I don’t want to talk about it with you anymore.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. You just love saying that these days, don’t you?” Jaskier huffed an annoyed sigh, reaching over Roach and prodding Geralt when he refused to make eye contact. “I didn’t tell you because it didn’t seem relevant at the time. You’re not upset with _me_. What’s really eating you, Geralt?”  
  
“Not ‘relevant?’ Stop - _stop_ \- stop _that_.” Geralt growled when Jaskier didn’t stop poking him, lightly smacking the irritatingly nimble hand away. “Forle smells sick. Hungry.”  
  
“Well, he is most definitely sick. I’ve heard what he does to his ‘pets.’ There’s nothing lovely about it. Which is sort of missing the point of _love_ -making, if you ask me.”  
  
Geralt accidentally looked directly into Jaskier’s large, curious, blue-as-hell eyes and couldn’t stop himself from reaching out and grabbing the hand he’d just brushed off.  
  
“He touched you. While I was sitting right there. That bastard...” Geralt shook his head, fractionally tightening his grip. “He wants you. All of you. In a _fucked_ way.”  
  
Understanding crossed Jaskier’s face as he realized - probably a bit belatedly - what the Witcher wasn’t saying, what he’d said with his actions by claiming him in front of Forle, despite the fact that they’d been navigating very nebulous territory since the very moment he woke with no memory of their relationship.  
  
“Wait - you - are you _jealous_ , Geralt?” A teasing smile, slender fingers toying with the sturdy ones trapped within his own. “Gods, you are _so_ jealous right now - look at you! Did you really think I’d go in for...no, I shouldn’t laugh, it’s just...” his voice broke off as he did just that, shaking his head.  
  
Despite himself, Geralt’s lips quirked in response to the pleasant sound and he gave an innocent shrug. “No, but you’ve made far more dubious choices. The boating incident, for example.”  
  
“That’s not - hey!” Jaskier let out a scandalized gasp as the other man chuckled - a rich, deep reverberation in his chest. “You didn’t see her before the fangs, she was an absolute knockout. Flitting about in the water, _topless_ \- “  
  
“A siren, Jaskier.”  
  
“ _Semantics_ , Geralt.” The bard’s eyes were drawn with magnetic force to where their hands were still connected over Roach’s back. “You don’t have to be, you know. Jealous. I find I’m of a one-track mind in that department lately.”  
  
“I know.” Geralt followed his gaze, suddenly finding it difficult to swallow. “It’s less about jealousy. I want to keep you safe. From him. Everything.”  
  
“And I appreciate that.” This was progress, Jaskier realized. Slow but steady progress. Encouraged, he continued, leaning further over Roach. “So, we - “  
  
He was interrupted by the stable doors flying open, Ciri hurrying in, placing her hands on her hips when she spotted them.  
  
“I tried to calm her down, but she’s going to have a full-blown conniption if you don’t come now.”  
  
Jaskier whined in frustration as Geralt’s hand slipped out of his. “Ci- _ri_ , sweetest heart, can’t you fend her off a bit longer? We were having a _moment_.”  
  
The girl giggled, shaking her head. “Afraid not. Like I said, full-blown fit. Now come on, you two. You can have your ‘moment’ later.” 

♜ ♖

They grudgingly followed her back inside and found Yen seated with her arms crossed over her chest, tapping her foot impatiently.  
  
“Took you long enough. I suppose you weren’t canoodling out there, so I can’t berate you for that.” Both men’s faces displayed varying levels of confusion. “Cat’s out of the bag - Annika filled us in while you were gone. Said you _died_ , Jaskier? That you can’t remember a thing, and now you’re acting terribly awkward around each other?”  
  
Jaskier shot the witch in question a scathing glare as he sat. “Annika says a lot, doesn’t she?”  
  
“Don’t give me that. She’s fucking persistent.”  
  
“What were you thinking, diving in front of that bolt? You have got to be more careful with yourself.” Geralt raised a brow, and Yen cleared her throat, quickly backtracking. “Ciri would be devastated if anything were to happen to - ” _Ciri_ raised a brow. “Oh, stop it. Both of you. I do have a heart, you know.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes. “So, what couldn’t wait?”  
  
“Right.” Yen pulled out Jannick’s book, and they saw that its pages had been ripped out, the front of it vandalized with some very crude, threatening words. “Seems Jannick has a spy in our court. This was locked away in my study last night, under several enchantments. There’s...well, there’s also the small matter of your bounty being doubled.”  
  
“ _Small_ matter?” Jaskier moaned, all exaggerated dramatics. “How am I supposed to uphold my reputation as the world’s greatest minstrel while I’m forced to remain cooped up in shady locales such as _this_? That don’t even serve _wine_?”  
  
“‘ _World’s greatest_?’”  
  
“Oh, we’re doing this now, _Annika_? I have the voice of a bloody angel - ”  
  
“Bloody, yes. When you sang to that drunkard last night, my ears _bled_ \- “  
  
“How long until this blows over?” Geralt, as always, trying to keep things on track.  
  
The sorceress sighed in exasperation, having to raise her voice to speak over Jaskier and Annika’s argument. “How can you possibly focus through all that racket? Anyway, it’s not a matter of how long. This is all part of the arch duke’s gambit for becoming king of the territory - promising to rid the land of all crime, the gallant arse. You might have noticed we’re dealing with a bit of an infestation.” A pause, followed by a sly smirk. “Oh, what am I saying? You clearly know all about that.”  
  
“We’re handling it, Yen.”  
  
“Better be. I’ll not risk my reputation just so you can get yourselves killed in a gang war.”  
  
Jaskier - who was gearing up to burst out in song to prove his point, much to Ciri’s delight - stopped suddenly with his cheeks puffed out, somehow managing to frown at the sorceress before releasing the breath.  
  
“It’s one measly job, and the alternative is...unpleasant. Besides, Geralt’s going as my hired muscle.” He wiggled his eyebrows suggestively at the Witcher, who audibly groaned. “Actually, it might be a conflict of interest, now that I think about it. They want me to - ”  
  
Yen raised her hand. “Ah, ah. The less I know, the better. Just don’t be stupid, and _don’t_ let any guards see you on your little excursion tonight.”  
  
After that, she hung around a little longer and filled them in on her plan - if she could find the sorcerer in court who’d gotten through her enchantments, who was working for Jannick, she would most likely be able to force a confession out of him. It might sway the arch duke’s opinion on the matter; if not to condemn Jannick, then at least to stop the culling of guardsmen in his keep. _And_ clear their names.  
  
As the sky darkened she left, but not without giving the Witcher one final warning.  
  
“The elf you’re dealing with is notoriously cruel. Don’t show any weakness in front of him. Like a shark, as soon as he smells blood in the water he’ll strike,” Yen jerked her head towards Jaskier, who was fiddling around with Ciri’s wild hair, agile fingers taming it into a delicate braid. “and take what’s dearest.”  
  
Geralt nodded, unable to look away as the bard made the girl laugh and laugh, teasing her endlessly, affectionately. He made everyone around him feel that way, somehow.  
  
“Noted. Thank you, Yen. For everything.”  
  
“Yes, I know. You’re eternally grateful.” Her lips curved in a small smile when she realized Geralt wasn’t looking at her at all, was very preoccupied by the happy scene unfolding before him. “Please, don’t be careless.”

♜ ♖

By the time midnight came around, they were _somewhat_ intoxicated, having taken part in a drinking game with a group of raucous ruffians at the inn.  
  
It was an act purely derived from boredom and cabin fever, though Jaskier had swindled a neat little pile of silver from them by tossing the vodka over his shoulder rather than drinking it. They’d left Ciri at the inn with Annika, knowing full well that with her quick wit and combat skills, she’d be able to handle anyone who dared bother them.  
  
“You reek of booze, Jaskier.” Geralt murmured as they peered around the corner of an alley, waiting for the guard patrol to pass. His mutated metabolism had already processed the alcohol, though the same could not be said for the goofy, giggling bard tottering dangerously at his side.  
  
Jaskier snorted. “Might’ve missed once or twice. Does my stench upset your delicate sensibilities?”  
  
“No, I’ve...always liked it. Your scent. I told you once before, but...” Geralt trailed off, realizing what he’d said. Perhaps the alcohol hadn’t burned off completely, then.  
  
At that, the bard blushed and fell into rare silence. These accidental revelations provided by Geralt fueled his desire to regain his memories, to relive those moments and be whole again, because each one had him feeling more empty rather than less, like a cup half-full -  
  
The small group of guards passed and they shuffled quickly across the cobblestone street to the market, Geralt keeping a firm grip on Jaskier’s collar to ensure that his inebriated ass stayed the course. If it were up to the Witcher, they would leave town and forget all this; but he and Jaskier had talked it over beforehand, after Yen left. They had promises to keep, people to protect. And Geralt knew they couldn’t solve it with violence, that crime syndicates were like hydras - cut off the head of one, and several more will grow in its place. Each one, deadlier than the last.  
  
Best to scope out the scene and get the job over with. If things went south, Geralt was more than confident that he could get them out. It was far better than the alternative option of a guaranteed life on the run, always watching their backs.  
  
It was another half hour before someone came to fetch them - they’d crouched low behind one of the stalls, out of sight. Jaskier was dozing off on Geralt’s shoulder, not noticing where his head had landed until he was rudely awakened by the Witcher shooting up and standing between him and a very tall, very irate, rail of a man.  
  
The hideout was massive, only accessible by traveling through a long, underground tunnel and eventually resurfacing through a hatch in the ceiling. It was made up of one large central cavern that linked together a network of several narrow passageways, everything illuminated by torches.  
  
The place was bustling with several of Forle’s associates, all going about their daily - or in this case, nightly - activities, not paying any mind to Geralt and Jaskier as their skinny comrade lead them to an alchemical station at the far left corner.  
  
The torches above it flickered purple and blue, and their light settled upon Forle’s tall, lithe frame as he stood hunched over his work, tinkering away. He was pouring a thick, red draught into a beaker that had been linked to several glass tubes - Jaskier decided he did _not_ want to know where the liquid came from.  
  
“Boss. Got the bard and his friend for ya.”  
  
The elf set down the beaker and turned to them, eyes lighting up as he spotted Jaskier, whose bleary, sleepy face was peeking out from behind Geralt’s broad shoulders.  
  
“Has a little fly wandered into my web?” Forle’s tongue darted out across his lips as he leaned back against the station, crossing his arms over his chest. He’d changed into lighter, sleeveless armor, allowing them to see the wiry muscles that shifted menacingly beneath dusky skin. “Wise decision to come when you’re told. Less wise to ignore my wishes that you come alone. Where’s the trust, Jaskier?”  
  
Nothing in the world was more sobering than the eerily playful drawl of that voice, its slight, breathy rasp sending chills down Jaskier’s spine.  
  
Geralt took a step forward, blocking the elf’s vision. “There is none.”  
  
Quicker than either man could process, Forle fluidly side-stepped around Geralt. The movement was unnaturally fast, as though he’d vanished for a moment - the next had him appearing beside Jaskier, cocking his head to the side while he examined him. Smiling with cruel amusement when the bard, taking a second to register the action, yelped and backed away. Bloody _magic_.  
  
Geralt had instinctively reached for his sword, which drew the attention of a few of Forle’s men that had been meandering by. They immediately made to unsheathe their own weapons but stopped short when their boss raised a hand, beckoning for them to stand down.  
  
“Now, now. There’s no need for that, _Geralt of Rivia_. It’s an honor, by the way - meeting the continent’s most meddlesome Witcher.” Forle let out a nonplussed sigh, eyes still not leaving Jaskier. “Nevertheless, you’re both here on business and I _am_ a professional.”  
  
“Someone did his research.” Jaskier muttered resentfully. “Professional _stalker_ , maybe.”  
  
“Aw, why so _grumpy_?” A quick, simpering look at Geralt. “Is someone holding out on you, pet? Not fulfilling your needs?”  
  
“That’s - that is _none_ of your - “  
  
“One of my associates overheard a very interesting discussion at an inn today. Let me just say, if you couldn’t remember _me_ ,” Forle leaned in and gently tapped Jaskier’s forehead, talking right over his indignant stammering. “I’d go right into that pretty little head of yours and _make_ you - ”  
  
That was the last straw for Geralt. One of _several_ , actually, though as soon as the elf made physical contact with Jaskier, he drew his blade, angling it so that the tip pressed into Forle’s throat, creating a divider between him and his chosen prey.  
  
“Touch him again and I’ll chop off the whole hand.”  
  
Forle spared a bored glance down at the blade and after a moment, rolled his eyes and made a show of raising his arms in mock surrender before taking a step back.  
  
“So touchy. Very _well_. Enough fun. Let’s get down to brass tacks, shall we?”  
  
He pulled out the potion and handed it Jaskier as Geralt lowered his blade - though he did not put it away, and Forle was too cocky, too confident in his own abilities to request that he do so. As a result, it remained out, ready to make good on Geralt’s promise if those sly fingers found their way onto his bard again.  
  
“So, I just...” Jaskier crinkled his nose as he popped the cork and sniffed the vial’s contents. “It’s not dangerous? Annika said...”  
  
Forle’s eyes narrowed at the mention of the witch. “That foul beast knows only of unrefined magic. This is derived from a simple retrieval spell, though I’ve played around with the formula. It also allows the one who drinks it to recover that which they have not previously owned - it’s only outlawed because of the illegality of its main component.”  
  
“Which is?” Geralt glared at the vial, how close it was to Jaskier’s lips.  
  
“Unicorn horn. Hard to come by. What you’re looking at is the last of our stock, so best make it count. Or I’ll be very, very angry.” Forle smirked at Jaskier, who responded with a churlish frown. “Here. A demonstration. All you have to do is visualize whatever you seek, and it will appear in your hand. The more you drink, the more powerful the enchantment is.”  
  
He used two fingers to gently guide the vial in Jaskier’s hands up to his own lips - his eyes remained fixed on Geralt as he did, exaggerating how close their hands were to touching, though at no point did they actually. Another dare, another subtle way of telling the Witcher that he wasn’t the one in control.  
  
Geralt didn’t like it one fucking bit.  
  
Forle took a tiny sip and then released the bottle, which Jaskier drew back a little too quickly - he was also unnerved by their close proximity, eyes darting back to Geralt for reassurance. To remind himself that he wasn’t alone in this.  
  
Moments after swallowing, the elf’s eyes came alive with bright, white energy before sliding shut.  
  
After about five minutes of tense silence they reopened and he regarded Geralt with a wicked grin, raising his left hand and displaying the object that had appeared in it on an open palm.  
  
A small gold band, decorated with tiny, sparkling blue stones. The only ring from Jannick’s treasure trove that Jaskier hadn’t sold, the one he’d worn every day since.  
  
Jaskier gasped when he saw it, glancing down at his own finger and finding it empty. “Hey! Give it back, that’s - I didn’t feel a thing, how is that _possible_?”  
  
“I’m _very_ good with my hands, Jaskier.” Forle nimbly slipped it into the pocket of Jaskier’s doublet, once again making a show of not actually touching the bard. “Now that we’re certain I’m not trying to poison you, are you ready?”  
  
Geralt snarled, reaching for the potion. “I saw the crown. I’ll drink it.”  
  
“ _No_ , Geralt. I can do this. My stupid choices got us here, right? Please, let me clean up my own mess for once.” Jaskier shot a nervous glance at the brutes milling about around them. “Besides, you can’t very well protect us if you’re traveling through space and time, or whatever the hell that just was.”  
  
Before the other man could protest further, could snatch it away, Jaskier downed the potion. For a moment, nothing happened. He frowned, trying to focus on that night - what he remembered of it, at least.  
  
He visualized the banquet. The arch duke. His head. Saw the crown, gold and sparkling.  
  
Suddenly, his vision was flooded with a bright, blinding light and he felt his knees buckle. Someone’s arms wrapped around him, supporting him as his eyes flickered closed and he focused, focused _very_ hard on the image of that crown.  
  
A familiar, faraway voice murmured his name, low and careful and tender. Asked if he was all right. Let him know they were right there. He somehow knew they would always be _right there_.  
  
As a result, all thoughts of the blasted crown vanished and right before he went under, he thought only of Geralt. Geralt, Geralt, _Geralt_.


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Real life bleed mechanics??? I was in a really dramatic mood when I wrote this?? Also, there is a noncon kiss ahead, please proceed with caution! I’ll mark its start and end with a ✧ !!!!!

Geralt. Geralt. Geraltgeraltger -  
  
The name repeated in his mind faster, faster, faster until it was a deafening scream. He was vaguely aware that he was clutching his head, could feel his own fingers digging painfully into his skull. He was panting, chest heaving. Might have been crying out.  
  
Fragments of images flashed in his brain, of blood and pain and sex and _love_ and the ferocity with which they bombarded him was head-splitting, mind-numbing, and he knew he’d toppled over at some point. Maybe he’d been gently eased down by Geralt or maybe he’d collapsed gracelessly like a bag of bricks. He couldn’t tell. Reality felt so far away.  
  
Until it didn’t. He was writhing around on the floor. Could feel its unforgiving solidity and through the fever-pitch, during a break in the assault on his mind, he heard warbled voices.  
  
“Jaskier, look at me - what the _fuck_ is happening, Forle?”  
  
“An adverse reaction, maybe. _Someone_ distracted him. Let me - “  
  
A vicious growl, a short scuffle. A loud crash as someone was tackled bodily to the ground.  
  
A light pressure on Jaskier’s forehead, followed by a soothing coolness, a pleasant magic. A voice speaking in his ear, though where he expected gruff reassurances, he got the silky smooth taunts of a barbed tongue.  
  
“Are you still in there? Quite the lovely show you’re putting on, pet.” He realized the light pressure on his forehead was a hand, stroking his bangs back. The cool relief it brought quickly turned sharp and icy and painful. “I’ll make it better, if you _scream_ for me first.”  
  
Jaskier refused to scream; didn’t have time to, anyway, as his barely-there consciousness only lasted a moment longer before another burning memory hit him like a carriage at full-speed. The sounds of the here and now grew even more distant, until they were lost to him completely.  
  
Thankfully, the initially overwhelming whirlwind in his mind settled and he was able to focus on the words being spoken in what he assumed, based on the point of view, were his own memories. He was able to make out faces, recognize voices.  
  
Singing a song to a bandit king about Geralt’s...oral capabilities.  
  
Speaking many, _many_ embarrassing truths.  
  
His own hand wrapped around Geralt’s throat.  
  
Things steadily became less fragmented, more comprehensible:  
  
Geralt, hovering above him, beaten and bloodied but radiant and _warm_. Stray strands of his hair tickled Jaskier’s face.  
  
“How do you really feel about me, Jaskier?”  
  
“I _love_ you, Geralt.”  
  
A relieved, breathy laugh. “I love you, too.”  
  
More pain, more fear. Pressing his shirt into Geralt’s motionless back.  
  
“I want to be with you, Jaskier.” Then, aggressively. Possessively. “ _Only_ you.”  
  
Lots of baths. Lots of touching, urgent and desperate.  
  
Geralt kissing him senseless against the bathroom door. Lips moving fervently, hungrily against his neck. Moving lower, moving _very_ low - Jaskier cursing and gripping the wall for dear life, knees buckling dangerously. Oral capabilities _indeed_. Slamming the back of his head against the door a little too enthusiastically, the painfully loud _thunk_ it made had both of them laughing -  
  
He tried clinging to that one, tried staying for the doubtlessly happy ending but it slipped through his fingers and the next thing he knew he was drowning as his lungs filled with blood, horribly slow. He was sprawled out in a pool of it on the grass. Heard his own last words as Geralt shouted frantically at him from above.  
  
“I love you, you insufferable brute.”  
  
After that he saw Yen, beautiful and poised in a plush chair beside him, implementing delicate ministrations on the nerves of his left shoulder, thin blue strands of magic needling into the open wound like puppet strings. His fingers twitched in response.  
  
“You were lucky, you know. Geralt’s reckless, last-ditch attempt wouldn’t have worked unless you were giving a confession of true love. Unless you were bonded, for life.”  
  
“What does _that_ mean? We’ve never even - ”  
  
“I’m talking about soulmates, Jaskier. Fate. Can’t you feel it?” A thoughtful pause. “What is it like?”  
  
“I don’t bloody know. It’s like - _ow_!” Looking down at the previously unresponsive limb in disbelief, laughing when he realized Yen had experimentally pinched his bicep. “I _felt_ that!”  
  
The fragments eventually became whole, weaving themselves together into a tapestry that detailed every single moment he’d forgotten. Happiness, sadness. Agony, ecstasy. Feeling all of it at once with dizzying force.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, though the amount of time that actually passed was impossible for him to distinguish, he came to. 

♜ ♖

Blue eyes fluttered open. He was still on the floor. Geralt was a foot away, Wade pinning him down, digging a muscled, meaty elbow into the back of his neck. As soon as they saw Jaskier was conscious everything stopped, and everyone around him waited with bated breath to see what was in his hand.  
  
Geralt used the distraction, rearing back and smashing his head into Wade’s. He broke free and lunged, face hovering above the bard’s as it had many times before, worriedly searching for signs of recognition, of mental there-ness.  
  
He reached up and gave the Witcher a light slap on the cheek, which earned him a confused, surprised look.  
  
“That’s for lying to me.” Jaskier was smiling, face pure and bright and soft. “You arse.”  
  
“Jaskier, what...“ Geralt looked down at the bard’s other hand, heart sinking when he realized there was no crown. “What did you do?”  
  
His slender fingers were wrapped protectively around _something_ , though. Geralt went to pry them open and investigate, but Jaskier hooked his hand around the back of his neck and dragged him closer, kissing him. Hard. Urgently at first, like they had in his memories, but eventually slowing, deepening -  
  
The bubble popped as Geralt was ripped away again and a heeled boot stepped on Jaskier’s wrist. He looked at it, followed it up one impossibly long leg until he saw Forle, glaring down at him. The elf wordlessly applied more pressure and Jaskier’s hand instinctively opened, revealing what he’d retrieved with the potion.  
  
Forle bent down and plucked the rose from his hand. Scowled at the object before crushing it in his palm, letting it cascade out through clenched fingers in a small, sad pile of dust beside Jaskier’s prone form.  
  
“More’s the pity.” A disappointed sigh. “I’ll take you instead, then.”  
  
“You - _what_?” Jaskier felt terribly woozy as he sat up, pitching to the side when he tried to stand, fingers digging into the stone floor for stability. “You can’t possibly think this is my fault. Blame your - your stupid _potion_! Or...unicorns, or something, I dunno, aren’t they bloody multidimensional _beings_? I-I mean, that has got to produce some really unstable - oh, gods, oh, _fuck_ \- “  
  
The menacing figure towering over him moved closer with each panicked word. Meanwhile, Geralt was fighting several men at once. He’d been disarmed, at some point. Probably while Jaskier was out. One ruffian jumped on his back and brought him to the ground, though he managed to aard them away before they could land a hit. More came at him, there were so many -  
  
Jaskier tried scrambling away from Forle, towards Geralt, but the elf grabbed the front of his shirt and lifted him up off the ground with almost insulting ease.  
  
And Geralt was shouting desperate, snarling threats in the background - the distraction resulted in him getting knocked in the back of the head with a club, sending him reeling. It took five men - including _Wade_ \- to pin him back down, his strong chin scraping painfully into stone. A hand wound into his hair, yanking his head up, forcing him to watch as Forle - the picture of elegance, all fluid movements and quiet rage mingling with wicked amusement - drew Jaskier closer.  
  
“You ran to escape your debt. When I offered you a _generous_ out, you used it for your own personal gain.” Forle leered at him, their faces centimeters apart. “Now, tell me, dear one - just _what_ am I supposed to do with you?”  
  
“Um, is that a rhetorical question?” Jaskier’s kicks landed but Forle hardly flinched, and he decided to try another tactic. “Because - if _not_ , I don’t suppose you’d consider just...letting bygones be bygones? Maybe?”  
  
“Bygones?” Forle blinked at him in amused surprise, and for a second there was hope. Then he threw his head back and laughed, a deep, cruel sound that bounced off the walls of the cavern. “So _delightfully_ naive. I like that about you. But I have a better idea - I want to see what it takes to break that spirit.”  
  
“Don’t you _fucking_ dare!” Geralt roared, thrashing around, managing to kick one of his captors in the face. They stumbled back, but the remaining four bore down even harder. “Jaskier - damn it, _look_ at me! I’m going to get you out - ”  
  
✧All sound was drowned out. With wiry hands holding him in place and the taste of Geralt still on his tongue, Jaskier could do nothing but watch as the terrifying visage before him leaned in and brought their lips together. Time seemed to slow, horribly, Forle’s arm snaking around him, vice-like, bruising.  
  
Immediately, fiercely, the bard bit down, blood filling his mouth but the lips and tongue moving against his own only curved into a sadistic smile. Teeth sunk into Jaskier’s lower lip as punishment and he squirmed, eyes wide and horrified. Staring into the elf’s, which also remained open, drinking up every second of pain that he caused. To Jaskier. To Geralt.  
  
One particularly hard kick elicited a grunt from Forle, though it wasn’t a pained noise. _Quite_ the opposite. He pulled back, now gazing at the small trickle of blood oozing from Jaskier’s split lip.  
  
“Struggle _harder_ , Jaskier. Don’t hold back.”  
  
The bard was stunned, terrified into silence, watching as Forle’s finger reached up and swiped a stray drop. He whispered something in another language, husky and breathless. The trickle intensified, Jaskier’s free arm finally responding and flying up to his mouth to try and contain it. Blood spilled out in rivulets through shaking fingers.  
  
“You’re a sick _bastard_ , and that - that was a _dreadful_ kiss - ” he managed to choke out, resuming his valiant fight to free himself.  
  
✧Forle snorted and released him. Jaskier teetered backwards, attacked by a sudden bout of sluggishness. Crashing to the ground, catching his sleeve in his fingers and pressing it to the small cut. His limbs felt like lead, fingers and toes tingling as the bleeding worsened. When he felt he might pass out, Forle muttered something else and it stopped, just as suddenly as it had started.  
  
The commotion behind them reached a crescendo and there was the distinct sound of bones snapping. Men screaming, heads being slammed together with jarring force. An axe spun towards Forle from the far side of the room, catching his cheek. He’d somehow anticipated it, had managed a smooth step mostly out of the way. It ended up only grazing him as it sailed by, embedding itself in the wall.  
  
Geralt. He stood, seething, at the center of a pile of groaning men that he’d savagely beaten - his boot was on the arm of one and when Forle turned to look at him he stomped down hard, breaking the bone, the man it belonged to crying out.  
  
His eyes were pitch black. Bloodied strings of hair hung in his face, which was twisted up in untold amounts of rage. Wade recovered faster than the rest, but when he went to try and secure the Witcher once more, Forle raised a hand to stop him.  
  
“Ah, ah. Don’t spoil all the fun, Wade.” Forle grinned at Geralt, tongue darting out to lap at Jaskier’s blood, that had mingled with his own on his lips. He drew his twin blades, and the runes that decorated their handles gleamed with throbbing, dark energy. “If it’s a duel you want, Witcher, I’d be happy to oblige. Give him back his sword.”  
  
Wade nodded, locating the weapon and tossing it to Geralt. He caught it without taking his eyes off the elf. “Big mistake.”  
  
“We’ll see. You win, you both get to leave with your lives. Debt forgiven. I win...well, you die.” A hungry glance at Jaskier, who had managed to get to his hands and knees, struggling to recover from Forle’s magically-induced dizzy spell. “And I get to take what’s yours, in whichever way I please.”  
  
Geralt blew a lock of hair out of his eyes, readying his blade. “You’re not going to win.”


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for this gratuitous battle scene, I’m actually in the middle of practicing for one of my classes. Also I live in a city and it’s now a ghost town, everything’s been moved online so...occasional daily updates! But really, be safe y’all! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♪One liner ci-i-i-ty♪

“You’re not going to win.”  
  
Before they could begin, Jaskier darted out, tried to stop it all - he didn’t want them to fight, didn’t want to see Geralt injured. Or worse. While he knew what the elf was capable of, Geralt did _not_ , had no idea what he was getting himself into.  
  
And Jaskier, he’d only just remembered everything. Every nuance of their relationship. The fact that it _was_ , in fact, a relationship and they were literally destined for each other. That _he’d_ been the one to tell Geralt they’d have no happy ending, had put the idea in his head that being together was dangerous.  
  
The words, and all their deeper meaning, had traveled on a delirious, dying breath but they’d left a invisible scar on the Witcher all the same.  
  
Jaskier knew he wouldn’t be able to stop the elf, whose skills were far and beyond his own meager combat prowess, but he could provide a temporary distraction. The elf wanted _him_ , after all.  
  
Geralt’s face was a mask of horror, immediately running to his aid. Jaskier shouted at him. “Stop! I’ll be all right for a little while, just get _help_ , get Yen or some - ”  
  
Without expending very much energy, Forle grabbed Jaskier and lifted him up by the back of his doublet, regarding him coolly.  
  
“ _Jaskier_. Can’t keep your hands off me, can you? You know, you’ve got to let the big boys play, too.” Wicked eyes traveled down the length of him and Jaskier tried squirming out from under his gaze. Managing to shoot his captor a scathing glare. “If you don’t, the deal’s off.”  
  
With that, he tossed Jaskier across the room, as if he weighed nothing. The bard skidded heavily to the ground, seeing stars when his head cracked painfully against it.  
  
Geralt froze when Forle aimed his blade at the smaller man - he’d made it about halfway across the cavern, cursing Jaskier’s impulsiveness as he did. But the energy contained in those weapons was dark and he’d seen what the elf had been able to do when supplied with even the smallest cut.  
  
“Will both of you _behave_?” Forle eyed Jaskier’s lip, still open, oozing sluggishly. “Your wounds might have already closed up, Witcher, but if you go to him I’ll make sure there isn’t a single drop left in that _enticing_ little body by the time you get there.”  
  
Jaskier was struggling to stand again and Geralt fixed him with a harsh, stern look. “Jaskier, stay down. _Please_.” He turned back to Forle, jaw working overtime to bite back some of the blatant concern in his voice, not wanting the elf to latch onto any form of weakness. “Let’s go. Me and you.”  
  
Forle smirked, narrowing his eyes. As he did, a few of the torches around them flickered out, exaggerating the shadows that danced across their makeshift arena and bathing it in sinister, flickering hues of purple, red, and blue.  
  
“ _Let’s_.”  
  
In the blink of an eye, Forle closed the space between them. Before Geralt could even think to anticipate his movements, the elf was behind him, one blade slicing right through the armor protecting his right side, meriting a low hiss. A terrible start.  
  
Geralt swung his sword in a broad arc, but just as it was about to connect with Forle’s limber body, he was gone, the weapon slicing through thin air. It was almost as if he had melded into the shadows - seconds later, he reappeared at the Witcher’s left, slicing him again.  
  
That second cut was deeper; Geralt’s free hand instinctively clasped over the wound, staunching the flow. He growled as Forle made a show of flitting around him like a fucking mosquito, laughing madly and just _begging_ to be smacked.  
  
“ _Geralt_!” Despite Geralt’s pleas, Jaskier rushed to disrupt the battle again. Before he could get there, two strong arms wrapped about his upper body from behind in a crushing grip, lifting him off the ground and immobilizing him. He tilted his head back, frowning up at Wade’s stony, bloodied face. “Will you fuck _off_? Why does everyone here think they can just manhandle me? What, are you still mad about me forgetting your name - it was _one_ time, you’re just going to have to get over it!”  
  
“This is a duel. You’ll get hurt if you interfere.”  
  
“He’s right. Stop fretting, pet. It will all be over soon.” Forle teased, voice low and lilting. He was at Geralt’s right with his arm resting casually on the man’s shoulder, but when the Witcher growled and swung at him again he blinked a few paces away, sick pleasure evident on his face.  
  
He slowly dragged his finger along one of his twin blades, through Geralt’s blood, and murmured the same incantation - now that Geralt was close enough, he could tell it was Elder. It had him groaning, staggering to his knees.  
  
His palm dug into his side as the bleeding intensified, bringing with it a burning hot agony. Red cascaded out through tightly-clenched fingers, splattering wetly to the floor in a too-large puddle.  
  
“I think you might be outclassed, ‘Ger _alt_.’” It was a mockery of the way Jaskier said the other man’s name, an imitation of the higher pitch of his voice. Geralt fucking hated it. “I’ve had centuries to hone these skills, can make you bleed out from a paper-cut in less than a minute’s time.”  
  
Forle popped the finger into his mouth, licking it clean. Blood stained his lips, got caught in pearly-white teeth, making his smile even more unnerving. “Where’s the theater in that, though? I enjoy toying with my prey. You, and then that _lovely_ number over there. That first taste was divine, Jaskier. We’ll have such fun.”  
  
“Oh, yeah. I _bet_. You’re just a bloody _barrel_ of joy and laughter and sunshine, aren’t y - _ouch_ , stop that!” Wade tightened his grip, effectively shutting Jaskier up and sending him into a wheezing, coughing fit.  
  
“Cheap tricks are just that.” Geralt hissed, digging his blade into the ground and using it to leverage himself back up into a hunched standing position. “They won’t save you.”  
  
A small burst of heat exploded from his hand as he cauterized the deeper wound, gritting his teeth against the pain. He did the same with the other side - in spite of how it bruised him, Jaskier thrashed wildly against the human wall holding him hostage, horrified by the sight.  
  
When Geralt removed his hand the skin beneath was mottled and raw, but the bleeding had stopped. The blood loss had come fast, barreling over him, but he hadn’t passed out. Now he just had to make sure the elf didn’t cut him again.  
  
Forle seemed to enjoy the display - he cackled and charged again, swords a flurry of black steel, but Geralt was ready for him. He closed his eyes and breathed out slowly through his nose, feeling the movement in the air, allowing the subtle flow of their battle to speak for itself.  
  
As Forle faked left he opened his eyes and swung right, catching the elf’s blades with his own, meeting the blow head-on.  
  
Forle bared his teeth and applied more pressure, but the sharp grooves of one of his swords had become tangled in Geralt’s. With a grunt, the Witcher overpowered and partially disarmed him, vaulting the blade across the room.  
  
From there, with his newfound focus - he _was_ fighting for Jaskier’s life and freedom as well as his own, after all - Geralt was able to meet each of Forle’s vicious strikes, making sure not to let his guard down. He’d always been a quick learner, needed less than a minute on the field to learn his opponent’s bad habits.  
  
Jaskier watched in horror, eventually sparing a second to glare up at Wade again, hoping to appeal to his better nature. Perhaps incite a riot, which was his _specialty_.  
  
“Tell me, _Wade_ \- does it bother you in the slightest that you’re working for a senselessly evil twat? Just look at him, he’s - he’s _feral_. Drinks blood, for no sodding reason. What is _that_ about?”  
  
Wade grunted, shrugging. The movement had Jaskier bobbing up and down in his arms, making him feel a bit seasick.  
  
“Boss is a good leader. Started from dirt, climbed to the top. Never let anyone push us around. He’s just chasing thrills where he can find them.” The big man scrutinized Jaskier from above. “If you think about it, who isn’t? Our world is a bleak place. We drink, we fuck, we die. How you go about it is your business.”  
  
“Oh. _Oh_. Right. And here I thought I was being bear-hugged by a somewhat reasonable man. That’s my mistake, really. That’s on me. Carry on with slowly crushing me to death.”  
  
A grunt from Geralt and the sound of steel clashing drew his attention back to the fray, though he was hardly able to track their movements with how quickly they were parrying, deflecting, striking. It would have been a marvelous spectacle, under any other circumstances.  
  
Forle’s actions grew more unpredictable the longer they fought, his wild grin more unhinged. Geralt had to assume that the second black steel bit into his skin, the elf would use his magic again - with far less control.  
  
And playing defensively brought about troubles of its own. His own bad habits bit him in the ass, perfectly matched Forle’s. He had difficulty landing a hit, spent most of the time blocking and dodging and signing his attacker away.  
  
Studying the erratic movements for any openings. None had been provided yet; Forle was more than skilled enough to know how to crowd and keep his opponent busy with an unrelenting onslaught, giving them very little time to plan accordingly.  
  
Suddenly, Geralt’s foot slipped in the pool of his own blood and he lost his balance - Forle grinned and went in for a calculated blow, but Geralt caught the blade in his hand before it could tear through his midriff, ignoring the pain as his palm and fingers were sliced open. He jerked the weapon to the side, knocking the elf attached to it off-kilter as well.  
  
With that, he knew Forle would dive in at the smallest opening. He could use it, if he could just survive long enough for the occasion to repeat itself.  
  
They tumbled to the ground, Forle knocking Geralt’s sword from his hand in the process. The Witcher used the momentum of the fall to overpower his opponent once more, bashing him in the face with his forehead and cracking that slender, aquiline nose.  
  
Forle’s lithe form writhed beneath him, giddy and mad from adrenaline. He dug his claws into the wound on Geralt’s palm and it bled faster. Too fast, bringing with it a drowsy, warm feeling. Geralt yanked it away, clenched it shut and burned it closed, then used the very same fist to punch Forle in the face.  
  
“You’ve got some fucking nerve.” Geralt punctuated his words with brutal blows, bloodying the elf’s infernally smiling face, though each one that landed had the smile faltering. “Didn’t anyone teach you not to play with your food?”  
  
Suddenly, the figure beneath him vanished, his last punch connecting with hard concrete, leaving a dent in it. Forle used his incredible speed to put some space between them, retrieving one of his swords. He was panting, face alight with excitement, red now pulsing out from his broken nose, gleaming menacingly on his lips and chin and neck.  
  
“Be still my beating heart. It’s been a long time since I felt sparks like _that_ in battle, Witcher.” Forle’s voice was slick, amused. He gestured for Geralt to pick his sword back up. “Guess I was wrong, you _are_ capable. We could spar all night, but perhaps it would be best if we just ended this with a single strike. No tricks. Whoever lands the first blow takes all.”  
  
Jaskier kicked stubbornly at Wade, ignoring the oppressive, lingering ache in his chest. Tears stung his eyes suddenly, salt stinging his torn lip. If Forle landed it, he’d no doubt kill Geralt instantly. If he didn’t, there was no way to know if he’d actually keep his word.  
  
A hopeless situation. At the mercy of a sadistic animal with shady morals and shadier intentions. The way he looked at Geralt now was different, too. _Interested_.  
  
“I’ll go with you, okay? Then we can be done with this _ridiculous_ scene.” Jaskier hated the way his voice cracked, hated how scared he sounded. “How’s that? _Hello_?”  
  
Geralt gave him a soft, reassuring smile, and the bard knew by the look in his eyes that what he’d suggested wasn’t a real option. Not a chance. The Witcher would never give him up like that, would die trying to keep him safe.  
  
Without a word, Geralt turned back to the crime lord and nodded, brandishing his blade.  
  
They charged at each other. Forle wasn’t using his magic, though he was still able to match Geralt’s movements, utilizing a deadly combination of ferocity and fluidity. Geralt wasn’t using his signs either. Their blades clashed countless times, Jaskier’s mind going a mile a minute as he studied the battle for one break, one single second where either Geralt or Forle could land a hit.  
  
Finally, there was an opening. Geralt went for it, but Jaskier saw the shadow of a smile on Forle’s face and just before the blade landed, he phased behind the Witcher.  
  
“Geralt, look _out_ \- “  
  
It seemed that although the initial opening had been a bait of its own, Geralt had only pretended to go for it. He’d anticipated that the elf would cheat, knew he’d fake him out, and created a false vulnerability of his own to compensate.  
  
He ducked agilely out of the way and without turning, used his elbow to knock Forle’s weapon from his hand, sending it flying.  
  
With one fluid movement he spun around, grabbed the gloved hand that had been holding it - jarred from the force of Geralt’s brute strength - and lifted it in the air by its spindly fingers.  
  
Before Forle could get away, with one sure strike, Geralt chopped the thing clean off.  
  
Magic sputtered about the elf and he staggered, shadows curling around him. He blinked haphazardly away, only making it a few paces before he fell to his knees, the handless limb clutched to his chest.  
  
“Told you I’d chop it off.” Geralt tossed the appendage at Forle’s feet. “Don’t touch what isn’t yours.”  
  
“Boss!” Wade released Jaskier - who crumpled in a small heap on the floor - and ran to Forle’s aid. Some of the men, who had recovered enough from Geralt’s beating, followed. One pulled a few potions from his pockets. “Keep it above his head!”  
  
Geralt approached them, eyes returning to their gold color but still terrifyingly fierce.  
  
“If you come within spitting distance of him again,” he crouched beside the elf, digging the tip of his sword into his throat once more. This time, an Adam’s apple bobbed nervously. Forle raised his remaining hand to calm his henchmen when they went to attack. “I won’t hold back. You had me at a disadvantage, keeping him hostage like that.”  
  
The elf was pale, groaning as someone quickly wrapped a cloth around the stump, which was spurting blood at an alarming rate.  
  
Geralt leaned in closer still. His voice was a low, menacing hiss. “Never again, you hear me? You may like pain, but I’ll kill you slowly, and make sure you don’t enjoy a second of it.”  
  
Forle stared at him for a long moment before nodding, the corner of his lips curving up. Still impossibly amused, even through the agony. His voice was breathless, exhilarated, punctuated by the occasional gasp as the tourniquet was made.  
  
When he finally spoke, his consciousness seemed to be ebbing away by the second, words slurring.  
  
“You have my word, Geralt of Rivia. Whether you choose to believe me or not. You may leave with your lives this night. His debt is forgiven.” Someone eased him down, had his arm elevated above his head. “But don’t be a stranger. If you’re ever back in town, I’d love to feel like that again.”  
  
“No, thanks. Sick fuck.” Geralt straightened, not sheathing his sword but hurrying to Jaskier and helping him up, slinging his arm over his shoulder. The bard was clutching his chest, had difficulty standing up straight. Internal injury. “Did he hurt you?”  
  
Jaskier experimentally took a deep breath, cringing when it hurt. “Not terribly. A few cracked ribs, which is really nothing after you’ve taken a bolt to the lungs. Are _you_ all right? I can’t believe you cut off his _hand_ , Geralt. How is it we’re leaving this place alive, again?” He shook his head. “There were far too many one-liners, I could barely understand a word of it.”  
  
Geralt chuckled, but hurried Jaskier out of the wretched place all the same. Nobody moved to stop them, though the last he saw, Forle had passed out. More honor among thieves than anyone else, apparently.  
  
When they made it back into the tunnel, and were finally alone, he stopped. Jaskier turned to him, a question on his lips - which was exactly where his focus went, fingers brushing the raw, red split in his lower one.  
  
It was terribly swollen. Rapidly bruising. A chill ran through him at the memory of what caused it and without thinking, he drew the bard into a hug. His hand guided Jaskier’s head into the crook of his neck, pulling him in close and tight. Tilting his own head down into soft, downy brown hair. Inhaling deeply, the scent of sweat and nerves and relief and blood.  
  
“I’m sorry, Jaskier.”  
  
After a stunned moment the bard’s arms returned the gesture, muffled voice trying to sound as comforting as he could through the lingering fear. He knew he needed Geralt, but the man had spent the last few days needing him, and saying nothing. Pretending all along. And the hurt, the misplaced guilt in his voice now, the desperation Jaskier had heard when Forle stole that kiss...  
  
“It wasn’t your fault, Geralt.”  
  
“I couldn’t get there - ”  
  
Jaskier nuzzled further into Geralt’s neck. “ _No_. I simply won’t have it. You saved me from a far worse fate. Thank you.” He reluctantly removed himself from the protective shield of Geralt’s body, gazing up at him. “I _mean_ it.”


	40. Chapter 40

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today I had to go to 30 diff spots to find toilet paper and water?? 
> 
> I hope this isn’t terribly boring! Just a short snippet of fluff, dealing with the aftermath before the next big event lol

Jaskier was still in a potion-induced slumber when Geralt made to leave their room. He took a moment to appreciate the gentle rise and fall of his chest, the warm palette of his skin, before gently closing the door behind him.  
  
It was late in the morning, the inn still relatively empty. He wandered downstairs, foraging for any sort of food, and was mildly surprised to find that Annika had somehow commandeered the kitchen.  
  
One barmaid was cowering outside, clearly having received the brunt of the witch’s frustration. She mentioned that a demon had taken over the kitchen, had threatened to steal her eyes if she interfered.  
  
And Annika was aggressively baking, scowling at the dough, working it far too hard. There were plates of botched pastries all around her, each one in worse shape than the last.  
  
Geralt reached for a sad-looking biscuit, growling when she smacked his hand away. “What’s your fucking problem?”  
  
“ _My_ problem? What the hell happened last night? He’s having nightmares. He’s terrified of _something_.” An annoyed huff as she whacked the dough with a battered rolling pin. “Didn’t sleep a wink. Felt compelled to make fucking _biscuits_. And tea. I don’t make _biscuits_ , Geralt. And I despise tea. Why drink flowers when there’s ale on hand?”  
  
He frowned at that. Jaskier had seemed so peaceful when he left - he’d watched him all night, carefully, for any signs of distress from the concussion. There had been none.  
  
“He likes both. Probably what’s left of your connection.” His frown deepened when Annika went back to taking her aggression out on the poor lump of batter. Before she could make contact, he grabbed the rolling pin midair, snatching it out of her hands. “Stop. You’re going to fuck it up again. Waste of food.”  
  
She threw her hands up in exasperation before untying the stained apron and tossing it at his face, drawing another irritated sound from the man. “You bloody do it, then. The first batch was all clumpy. The second tasted like fucking sawdust. How is he pain in my arse even in his sleep?”  
  
With a groan, Geralt grudgingly slipped the apron over his black linen shirt and glared at the pathetic ball of dough. He didn’t bake either; could make a hearty stew from any odds and ends he found in the wilds, but he didn’t _bake_.  
  
But if Jaskier subconsciously wanted biscuits, Geralt would make sure he got fucking biscuits.  
  
When Annika tried creeping stealthily away - having readied herself to unload the task on the first soul who dared enter the kitchen, _delighted_ that it ended up being Geralt - he grabbed the back of her tunic and dragged her back.  


♜ ♖

Geralt was moving above him, peppering terribly gentle kisses along his jaw. Breath tickling his ear. He didn’t know where they were but there was a soft mattress below, warm body on top. No complaints there.  
  
Pleasant ministrations quickly turned wanting and feverish and Geralt’s lips finally met Jaskier’s in a long, deep, _hungry_ kiss. Large hands like hot irons, running along his body. He arched into them. He wasn’t wounded, somehow. Could move easily without any of the lingering soreness, though in the back of his mind he wanted to ask why and how that was.  
  
_Time and place, Jaskier_ , he thought, choosing to let his clouded brain enjoy the currents of pleasant he’d inexplicably found himself riding.  
  
Nothing hurt. Everything felt right.  
  
Until suddenly, it didn’t.  
  
Geralt’s teeth slipped into the tender skin of his lip. Tearing it viciously, without remorse. He let out a muffled cry, hands clawing at the Witcher’s back, expecting to find its familiar broadness and instead making contact with a far more narrow frame.  
  
There was blood, he could taste it. His own and another’s. When he finally gathered the courage to look, he was met with ice-cold, impossibly light irises. Cat-like. _Sinister_. None of Geralt’s warmth. Distinctly lacking the amused, gentle curve of his eyes that usually occurred when he looked up to find Jaskier watching him.  
  
Hands slammed him down by his shoulders. One came up and covered his mouth as he tried to scream. It suffocated the noise, bearing down hard and forcing his head further into the mattress, making it hard to breathe, hard to think.  
  
“You’ll scream when I want you to, pet.” 

♜ ♖

He shot up in bed, alone. Soaked in a cold sweat. The room was bathed in the warm golds of afternoon, the sight of it comforting him. That night was over. In his nightmare, there’d been two hands. Now, thanks to Geralt, that creep only had _one_.  
  
The throbbing ache was back and its familiar presence reassured him, an arm protectively snaking around the bandages on his bare chest.  
  
He and Geralt made it to the inn late last night, at an hour that some would consider to be morning. Annika and Ciri waited up for them, were playing a game of cards when they burst through the door - they must have looked absolutely awful because both descended upon them instantly, guiding them to sit, asking what had happened. Geralt, covered in blood, his sides visible through the tears in his shirt and armor. The healing skin was still raw and red from self-inflicted burns.  
  
Annika and Ciri were prodding, touching, _pushing_ until Jaskier found he had to separate himself from it all and Geralt guided him up to the room they’d been sharing.  
  
In spite of Jaskier’s protests, the Witcher hadn’t slept. He posted up in a chair by the window, scanning the street below for any signs of unwanted company. Keeping one eye on Jaskier as he did.  
  
Annika had been summoned after the excitement died down, Geralt insisting she check Jaskier over before sleep claimed him. It was a good call - he ended up having several broken ribs and a nasty concussion, leaving him loopy and aching. After the adrenaline wore off he realized he was nauseous, had trouble taking deep breaths, and when he finally laid in bed the room spun.  
  
She had healed his split lip immediately, upon Jaskier’s insistence. She’d done it gently and without prying further, an uncharacteristically concerned look on her face.  
  
The other injuries were set tightly with bandages, his head and chest wrapped, and Annika gave him a potion to start on the internal healing. She told him it would take a little time before he started feeling better, and he couldn’t help but feel as though she wasn’t just talking about physical damage.  
  
Jaskier’s reverie was interrupted when suddenly, at the closed door, he heard the metallic clatter of several objects on a tray. Someone tried the knob, something crashed to the floor. This was followed by a pained hiss and subsequently a loud, obscene string of curses.  
  
The bard snorted when he recognized that deep, gruff voice, crawling out of bed and making his way to the door. It swung open before he could get there, revealing a very disgruntled Witcher carrying a metal tray stacked high with biscuits, a pot of tea, a few cups, butter and jam.  
  
One had tipped over in his efforts, spilling boiling hot liquid all over the front of his shirt - _apron_? Another had shattered on the ground, porcelain pieces crunching beneath his feet as he entered.  
  
The scene was so ludicrous that Jaskier immediately doubled over and laughed, hands wrapping instinctively around his injuries.  
  
“Geralt - _ow_ , don’t make me laugh! I’m not - “ He straightened, trying to force himself to calm down. The irate look on Geralt’s face at the bard’s obvious amusement, made sillier by his current ensemble, had him falling apart all over again. “You look ridiculous. Why didn’t you pour the tea _after_ you got the tray upstairs? You - is that _flour_ on your nose?”  
  
The Witcher growled and quickly scrubbed it off with his arm, sending another cup teetering dangerously to the edge of the tray, its contents sloshing violently.  
  
“It’s in your hair, too. Ow, owow - gods, thank you for that. I can die happy now. Geralt of Rivia in a bloody _apron_. Look how tiny it is on you!“ Jaskier had to sit back down, wiping a tear of mirth from the corner of his eye. He patted the table, still snickering and wincing alternatively. “Set it down here, you menace.”  
  
Geralt did, trying his best to glare at Jaskier though his lips quirked in a small smile of his own. “Glad you’re so amused by this, Jaskier.”  
  
“I won’t deny that the sight of you like... _this_.” He gestured vaguely at Geralt as he slipped the apron off, sitting across from him at the small table. “It brings me wicked pleasure. But how did you know I wanted biscuits? _I_ didn’t even know I wanted them.”  
  
“Annika.” Geralt watched as Jaskier plucked one from the tray. “Also said you were having nightmares.”  
  
Jaskier had torn off a small piece, ready to pop it in his mouth. At the very thought of the elf he set it down, stomach roiling.  
  
“That bloody connection.”  
  
It was all the confirmation Geralt needed.  
  
“He should be dead.”  
  
“It’s not _that_. I’m actually comforted by the knowledge that he has one less hand to maim with. Besides, you couldn’t have known what would happen if you _did_ kill him. His men might have turned. Wade was primed and ready to turn me into bard _soup_.” Jaskier took a sip of tea, the pleasant flavors of honey-laced citrus and herbs playing on his tongue.  
  
“Fucking Wade.”  
  
“Absolutely out of his gourd, that one. Anyway, it’s like...Forle took something from me. I don’t know, that potion Annika gave me was bloody _strong_ , I don’t think I’m making much - ”  
  
Geralt reached across the table and took his hand, the lines of his face exaggerated by a hard frown. He tried keeping the residual anger out of his voice.  
  
“I wanted to get there sooner.”  
  
“You got there as soon as soon as you could.” Jaskier sighed, when a thought suddenly occurred to him. With a smirk, he tangled his fingers around the other man’s. “After all this, you absolutely cannot still believe that I’m better off without you. Honestly, just _look_ at what I get into when left to my own devices.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “In this case, maybe. But we both know the only way I could really keep you from trouble is...well, tying you up somewhere, for starters.”  
  
“Oh?” Jaskier quirked a brow, his smile growing cheekier by the second. “Don’t threaten me with a good time, Geralt. But _no_ gags. You know I don’t do well with them.”  
  
A wolfish grin that had the bard swooning a bit. But, again, _very_ strong potion. “You seemed to like the way I took it off.”  
  
There needed less space between them, Jaskier realized. He clambered noisily around the table, taking a seat on Geralt’s lap and trying to act very casual and nonchalant about it, though his cheeks were burning fiercely. Somehow, the few days they’d gone without _this_ kind of contact felt like months. Years. Centuries, maybe.  
  
It might have had something to do with losing his memories, regaining them all back at lightning speed - though he distinctly remembered, now that he had them, that he’d been unable to keep his hands off the other man at one point.  
  
Strong arms secured him in his new spot, careful not to aggravate any injuries.  
  
“Perhaps only if you use your teeth, then.”  
  
Geralt reached up, brushed the bard’s cheek with a calloused hand. “That can be arranged.”  
  
At that, Jaskier decided he needed to close the space even more. He shifted until he was straddling Geralt, legs dangling on either side of the chair. After a moment of studying the serious face beneath his, he leaned down slowly, taking in every little expression on Geralt’s face as he did, and kissed him.  
  
It was incredibly pleasant, at first. Geralt’s hands eventually settled on his hips, maneuvering him until there wasn’t a breath of space between them.  
  
Slowly, however, something edged its way in. Had Jaskier’s body tensing. The memory of his nightmare hit him full force when Geralt slowly drew his tongue along the inner part of Jaskier’s lower lip, a habit he’d previously enjoyed because of the pleasant way it tickled.  
  
Jaskier let out a small whimper. The Witcher froze as soon as he sensed the change, heard the sound, but he wasn’t quick enough. Before he knew it, the bard defensively clamped down, biting him. Blood bubbled forth instantly. He hissed and Jaskier broke the kiss, nearly somersaulting backwards in his attempts to get off the chair.  
  
“Ger _alt_! I’m sorry, I...” The bard’s face was white as a sheet as Geralt’s hand flew to his mouth, prodding broken skin. “Gods, you’re _bleeding_ , I need to - ”  
  
“Jaskier, calm down.” Geralt’s voice was muffled behind his hand. After a moment, he removed it and displayed an already-healing wound, hoping the sight of it might soothe the trembling man standing before him. “Are you okay?”  
  
Slowly, Jaskier nodded, inching forward and examining what he’d done. A slender hand reached up and brushed at a smear of blood. He was still too pale, talking a mile a minute.  
  
“Are _you_ okay? You know, it’s not that I don’t _want_...I definitely really, _really_ want - but I couldn’t stop thinking of - _of_ \- ”  
  
With one hand, Geralt gently tilted Jaskier’s chin up, drawing his gaze away from the injury as the skin slowly closed up.  
  
“You need time. I’m not going anywhere.” That earned him a sardonic look, the bard silently reminding him of the bounty, the fact that _neither_ of them were going anywhere. “You know what I mean, Jaskier.”


	41. Chapter 41

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lil romance! Really inaccurate portrayals of gwent! A cliffhanger (typical)! 
> 
> ALSO once this arc finishes up, there IS going to be one more. I know, yikes. But it involves a new curse that infects the boys when they go to ~investigate~ because apparently, in this universe, that’s like their..job?

Several days had passed since the biting incident. They hadn’t kissed since, though Geralt - eventually giving up his nightly vigil - had started sleeping in Jaskier’s bed again. Only once he’d been sure that Forle’s men wouldn’t slit their throats in the dead of night - as sure as could be, at least, considering they’d been virtually cut off from society.  
  
The healing draught had done wonders and Jaskier was nearly fully recovered, but as a result of their being forced into hiding, also _incredibly_ bored.  
  
Annika was completely and utterly fed up with him - actually, they were all a bit fed up with each other. A lot of internal bickering. With the exception of lovely Ciri, who had the freedom to waltz in and out of the seedy inn as she pleased, bringing small gifts and stories from the outside world.  
  
To Jaskier, mostly - Geralt and Annika had fallen into a gambling hole with the shady locals. They’d both become a bit obsessed and didn’t care much to hear of Vesemir’s boring lectures. _Or_ enjoy the sweet confections Ciri smuggled in from the arch duke’s kitchens. That was all fine by Jaskier. More petit fours for him.  
  
But the _boredom_. Yen still hadn’t found Jannick’s informant. Their bounty was still ridiculously high. It seemed there was no hope in sight, that they were destined for a life of hiding and bloody _gwent_.  
  
“Geralt.”  
  
Jaskier was seated backwards on a chair that he’d pulled up beside the man. After a moment of no response he poked him, baffled by Geralt’s incredible focus as he glowered down at a particularly intense game.  
  
Annika was seated across the table, sandwiched between two scarred-up brutes. She didn’t look up, but her brow twitched in irritation at the whiny tone Jaskier was using; a tick she’d developed within the last few days, that conveniently only occurred when he was in the immediate vicinity.  
  
“ _Geralt_. Hello-o? Please, pay attention to me, I _beg_ of you.” Jaskier rested his chin on the back of his chair, pouting up at the man with impossibly wide eyes. “Like a flower in too much shade, I am _wilting_ , Geralt. Do you hear me? _Wilting_. This place is _killing_ me.”  
  
“You’re fine, Jaskier.” Geralt, eyes not leaving the cards before him. “Go visit Roach, get some air.”  
  
“Yes, _go_. And stop with the histrionics.” _Annika_. “Play for the drunks or something. Get some coin and buy _us_ supper for once, you bloody freeloader.”  
  
Jaskier gasped at the accusation. “I am an artist without an _instrument_ , Annika. And they really don’t seem to like when I sing - or, adversely, they like it _too_ much and ask what I’m charging for the night. Yet another reason why I cannot stay here any - ”  
  
A drunk - a regular - at the adjacent table poked his head up at that. “You taking customers again?”  
  
A low growl from Geralt - who still hadn’t bothered to look up - had the man burbling an apology before returning to his cup.  
  
“Fennam, for the last time, I am _not_ \- and never have been - ‘taking customers.’” Jaskier dropped his air quotations with a sigh before turning back to the card game, voice lowering conspiratorially. “Do you _see_ what I am dealing with?”  
  
“No.” Annika set a card down, the man on her left groaning in frustration when he saw what it was. “What I see is a bratty little bard who refuses to earn his keep.”  
  
“Oh, that is _it_ \- you’re both being baited.” Jaskier pointed at the cards, speaking to their fellow players as he did. Geralt shot him a look that he blatantly ignored. “ _He’s_ sitting on the King of Beggars. My guess is he’ll use it as soon as you - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_!” Geralt and Annika simultaneously, the outburst drawing suspicious looks from the other men. If it had just been Geralt, it wouldn’t have looked strange, but they were _clearly_ not playing the most honorable game. It wasn’t easy to cheat at gwent, but when left with so much time on one’s hands, not entirely impossible.  
  
“You _idiot_ , we had them right where we wanted - “ Annika froze, offering a simpering smile at the irate man on her left. “Figure of speech. No funny business here. You know, the old saying about...ah, I should save myself the trouble. Unless you’re...buying it, by any chance?”  
  
They weren’t. A large hand was thrust, palm-up, in front of her face, gesturing expectantly. With a pointed glare at Jaskier, she pulled a small coin purse from her pocket and grudgingly gave it to the man.  
  
Geralt stood as they left, shaking his head. “Fucking great.” He turned to Jaskier, frowning. “Meet me out back. Five minutes.”  
  
“Ooh, for _what_ , pray tell?”  
  
“Just do it, Jaskier.” 

♜ ♖

It was quite a bit longer than five minutes. Jaskier was leaning against the alley wall, whistling and gazing up at the early-evening sky. By the time Geralt arrived, he was counting the cobblestones beneath his feet, cringing when he noticed the corpse of a rat had taken up residence on one.  
  
The Witcher was wearing his black cloak, the hood obscuring his face. Jaskier greeted him excitedly and was met with a wordless grunt, a brown bundle shoved into his chest.  
  
“Put it on.”  
  
Jaskier frowned at the heavy fabric, realizing it was _another_ cloak. For him, apparently. Worn and very drab, not his tastes at all. With a reluctant sigh he slipped it on and Geralt adjusted the hood until he could hardly see beneath frayed, woolen seams.  
  
“Let’s go.”  
  
“ _Go_?” Jaskier hurried after him as he took off around the corner, eyes darting nervously around for any guards. “Where are we going, Geralt?”  
  
“Will you stop saying my name out loud?” Geralt hissed back, hurrying him along.  
  
Though their wanted posters were still pretty inaccurate - there had been many more tries since the initial attempt, and in the latest, Geralt had _fangs_ \- there was still the small chance they could be recognized. Name usage should be kept to a minimum, especially with the many different ways and many different _volumes_ in which the bard enjoyed exclaiming Geralt’s.  
  
Jaskier lapsed into silence, practically having to hold his breath to keep the questions at bay. Eventually, Geralt guided him around one last corner, down an alley - he stopped in front of an old, weathered ladder.  
  
“You first.”  
  
It seemed to go up to the roof of the building, though it certainly didn’t look sturdy enough to _climb_. A few rungs had snapped in half, and he wasn’t very keen on repeating his more recent foibles involving high places. And falling _off_ them.  
  
“Geralt, it’s so _old_. Where does it go?”  
  
“I’ll be right behind you.” A hand was on his back, urging him towards it. “Trust me, Jaskier.”  
  
That was as compelling an argument as any. Jaskier brushed back his cloak and did as he was instructed, trying not to yelp as the wood creaked beneath his hands and feet.  
  
All thoughts of dying a nasty, falling death vanished as he clambered up onto solid ground. Geralt had brought them to the top of one of the taller buildings in the city, giving a nice view of the entire landscape.  
  
More specifically, the sunset. It was nearly done by the time they sat at the edge of the roof, but the sky was still glowing in brilliant hues of gold and pink and purple.  
  
Geralt sat beside him, both of their legs dangling over the edge. After they’d settled, the Witcher reached into the deep pockets of his cloak and produced a green, netted bottle. A dark, wonderfully familiar liquid sloshed within.  
  
“Geralt, you sly dog!” Jaskier exclaimed, though he lowered his voice when he heard the way it echoed down into the street below. “You found _wine_?”  
  
The bottle was uncorked and they sat and watched as the sun edged towards the horizon. Jaskier was painfully aware of how close they were, found he had to fill the silence with his voice. As per usual.  
  
“What inspired all this? It’s a bit sexy, sneaking out to drink wine while we’re on the run from the law. I could _definitely_ work with this for my next ballad. Along with the mountain with all of those marvelous, tiny baths.”  
  
“Hot springs, Jaskier. You’re describing hot springs.” A pause, a teasing glance. “Thought you needed a break. Annika, too.”  
  
Jaskier snorted at that, taking a sip of wine. “Right. Any longer and she probably would have turned herself in just to get away from us.”  
  
“‘Us?’”  
  
“Oh, all right. _Me_. But I’m just awful at living in isolation like that, Geralt. I waste away, like a - like a - “  
  
“A flower. So you said.” Geralt’s hand settled over his on the bottle and he guided it to his lips, taking a long swig. The movement was thoughtless, but _so_ incredibly intimate. And his face was serene and peaceful, with the sunset illuminating his hair. Setting already bright, golden eyes aflame.  
  
Jaskier found himself unable to look away, even as they fell into a comfortable silence, occasionally passing the bottle. He wondered about the thoughts that went through Geralt’s mind when they were quiet like this. There was so much brewing beneath the surface, constantly, he knew, and -  
  
The other man must have felt his gaze because he abruptly turned his head to meet it, lips quirked in amusement.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Jaskier inched closer, one hand finding its way onto Geralt’s unrelentingly firm thigh. His eyes were on the other man’s lips, but he wasn’t nervous. Something about Geralt’s demeanor calmed him. He could have convinced himself that it had something to do with the wine or the wonderful sunset, the small corner of peace they’d found, but he knew otherwise. Geralt grounded him.  
  
Without another word, he slowly drew his hand along that thigh, up and up until its fingers tangled themselves in Geralt’s hair. He drew their faces closer, feeling warm breath on his cheek, intense eyes studying his every movement.  
  
He kissed him, then. And nothing terrible happened. No biting, no visions of Forle and the horrible memory of his teeth. For a long time, until the sun had set completely and they were covered in darkness. The bottle of wine was clutched in his hand, forgotten, as he chased Geralt’s lips when the other man chuckled and tried to separate them to give the bard some air.  
  
When they finally did part, Jaskier looked breathlessly up at him, lips bright pink, face exhilarated.  
  
“Well, that was...” He shook his head, giving Geralt a light shove because he was _far_ too amused by Jaskier’s speechlessness. “Thank you, for this. You know, _I_ know we’ve pretty much established this as fact, or destiny, or whatever but...is this an odd time to tell you that I lo - ”  
  
Suddenly, the tender moment was interrupted as Geralt clamped a hand over Jaskier’s mouth, glaring down at the dark street below.  
  
“Mmrfrl - ?“  
  
Geralt shushed him, softly and urgently. He quieted down, the condensation of his breath moistening the other man’s palm. Curious blue eyes peered over the roof to see what had the Witcher so spooked, though the street was currently empty.  
  
Gradually, he became aware of a thundering sound. Almost like an earthquake, coming from a few blocks away. Growing louder by the second.  
  
Finally, when he was sure Jaskier understood that he needed to speak at a _low_ volume, Geralt removed his hand.  
  
“Geralt, what’s happening? Should we...should we be this high up during an earthquake?” Jaskier still couldn’t _see_ anything - he craned his neck further, trying to peer around the corner. Geralt quickly grabbed him before he could topple over the edge.  
  
“Not an earthquake.”  
  
“Well, what the bloody hell _is_ it, then? It’s getting louder...look, over there - that stall is shaking! Are we in danger, Geralt?”  
  
The other man’s eyes narrowed, looking in the opposite direction - Jaskier followed his gaze and nearly fell over again, though a firm hand remained fisted in the back of his blouse to prevent any unwarranted plummeting.  
  
He hardly noticed it, however, because rounding the corner were _soldiers_. Many, many soldiers. Fifty, at least. They were someone’s guard, by the look of it, but their uniforms were varied; Jaskier recognized the colors of one and gasped, leaning further out to get a better look.  
  
“ _Valenves Keep_? And...”  
  
“That’s the arch duke’s banner.”  
  
As they passed by below, Geralt shrank back into the shadows, urging Jaskier to come away from the ledge. The bard did, but in the process, managed to drop the bottle.  
  
It hurtled down, _all_ the way down, before shattering at the feet of one soldier. The man squinted at it and then looked up, face inscrutable behind the visor of his metal helmet, though by then Geralt and Jaskier had already swung their legs over, were no longer visible from below.  
  
“Is someone up there? There’s a curfew tonight! All citizens must remain indoors until morning!”  
  
A few others had stopped, following his gaze. For a long, drawn-out moment the soldier glared up at the roof. Jaskier was clutching Geralt’s shirt, trying not to _breathe_ for fear it might give their position away.  
  
One soldier was examining the bottom half of the broken bottle. He sniffed and crinkled his nose, displaying it to the man who had nearly been clobbered by it.  
  
“Fucking wastrels. We don’t have time for this.” The soldier sighed heavily, raising his voice as he called back up to them. “Get inside! If I come back and find you’re still out and about, there’ll be trouble! Answer me so I know you understand!”  
  
Jaskier looked to Geralt, who vigorously shook his head. After a moment, when the guard below continued asking for some sort of affirmation, Jaskier ignored the Witcher’s silent, _threatening_ protests.  
  
He cleared his throat, trying to make his voice as deep as possible. Making himself sound like a completely different person, on the off-chance that one of Jannick’s men recognized his very distinguishable vernacular. The accent his efforts produced ended up being an odd combination of several different regions.  
  
“Yeah, all right, mate!” Geralt’s glare was _scathing_. “Uh...” Too high. “ _Ahem_...s-sorry ‘bout that! The - the bottle thing, I mean! We’ll - we’ll just be off, then!” Finally, for good measure - because he was enjoying playing this new part, just a tiny bit. “Thanks for the tip...chum!”  
  
Somehow, to Geralt’s disbelief, the soldier was satisfied by that incredibly shady response. With a nod to his men, they continued their march. There were so many that they looked a bit like a colony of ants, diverging to avoid the puddle of red wine, falling back into formation after they’d passed it.  
  
“Wow, can you believe he bought it? Gods, imagine if I sounded like that _all_ the time, Ger - _ack_!”  
  
Geralt had grabbed his collar, dragging him towards the ladder they’d climbed up on. “Damn it. Did you see where they were heading?”  
  
The bard paused at the top of the ladder, peering over the roof once more. The soldiers had rounded another corner, moving swiftly towards...  
  
“Oh. Bollocks. I don’t suppose they’re just stopping for a pint? You know...collectively?”  
  
“No.” Geralt was already halfway down, impatiently urging the smaller man to start descending. “The inn. They’re coming for _us_ , Jaskier.”  
  
That had the color draining from Jaskier’s face. “But Annika...and _Ciri_ was going to stop by...”  
  
“I know. _Fuck_.”


	42. Chapter 42

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> These three-days-in-a-row updates are brought to you by me, in a onesie, during quarantine!

They hurried through a network of alleys, Geralt leading Jaskier along by his hand. He’d brought his sword to their romantic rooftop rendezvous, in case they ran into trouble, but he hadn’t put on his armor. A vulnerability. A stupid mistake, borne from how comfortable they’d gotten in their current situation.  
  
Witchers who made mistakes like that were usually at the end of their lifespans, slow and tired. Forgetful. He was still considered young. Still a finely-tuned weapon. There was no excuse, aside from the one attached to his hand, cursing and struggling to keep up with his swift pace.  
  
Speaking of, Jaskier was wearing what could only be described as _sleepwear_ , having accidentally abandoned his cloak on the roof in the flurry of activity. He was in nothing but a flimsy white blouse, barely held closed by a string and tucked into soft, camel-colored breeches.  
  
Geralt had appreciated the sight of his bare chest before, but now all he could think of was how easy it would be for a blade to slice it open. While the bard never wore armor, flat-out refused to, his usual apparel might have provided at least _some_ form of protection.  
  
In other words, they were completely unprepared for any sort of fight, and Geralt was cursing himself for his own negligence.  
  
“How on earth did they find us?” Jaskier managed between gasping breaths. He was very much used to running for his life, but he lacked Geralt’s stamina - in the athletic department, at least - and found himself already winded. “Do you think...do you think it was _him_?”  
  
Geralt frowned, stopping suddenly and pulling Jaskier back. They’d caught up with the rear of the guard, moving stealthily alongside them through shadowed alleyways. The longer, backroad route hindered their progress, but revealing themselves would only put them at an even greater disadvantage.  
  
“Perhaps. For the bounty, or revenge. He knew where we were staying.”  
  
“Ciri...” Jaskier’s voice wavered as he thought of the young girl, most likely waiting for them at the inn, unaware of the massive force approaching. And Annika, who he knew would rather die than be taken into captivity again. “Do you think she stayed away, Geralt? You know, with the curfew? And sometimes she gets caught up in her training and forgets - ”  
  
“Too stubborn to care about a curfew.” Geralt’s expression was grim as he urged Jaskier to continue moving forward. “Faster. We need to beat them there.” 

♜ ♖

They didn’t, unfortunately. By the time they made it to the inn, it was teeming with soldiers. Outside, inside. Poking around the stables, overturning everything in their search. Geralt lingered in the shadows of the alley across the street, holding Jaskier back when he went to run, to find their other companions.  
  
After a moment, through the front door, two soldiers came out with Ciri and Annika in tow. They hadn’t been bound - Annika’s arms were pinned behind her back, a nasty bruise swelling, nearly shutting her left eye. Ciri was dragged out by a large guard who wore less armor than the rest. A bruiser of some sort. Her little face was absolutely _furious_ , kicking at him, trying to bite the arm that held her.  
  
One man, whose weapon and armor were of a much better make than the rest of the soldiers, stood in front of the inn and shouted for Geralt and Jaskier.  
  
“I know you’re here somewhere, _Witcher_. We’ve got your friends.” Geralt stiffened at the cruel quality of his voice, at the sight of Ciri scratching and clawing in her attempts to escape. “If and the bard show yourselves now, we’ll let the young girl go. I’m a reasonable man; there’s no need for unnecessary violence if you come quietly.”  
  
Jaskier struggled violently against Geralt’s arms as one soldier - one of Jannick’s men - spat in Annika’s face. The one who had spoken leveled his spear at Ciri. His back was to Geralt, thinking he was hiding out in the inn somewhere.  
  
“If not, we’ll kill her. It’s your call, really. Though I’ve heard Witchers don’t have hearts. You’d probably let an innocent child die to save your own skin, wouldn’t you?”  
  
Ciri saw them, then. She was facing the alley and when she realized they were there her struggling stopped. The fear on her face made her look even younger, and the sight of it made it hard for Jaskier to breathe.  
  
He’d never seen her look like that. He never wanted to again.  
  
“Lower your spear.” Geralt’s tone left no room for argument, all of the men turning their blades to him as stepped out with Jaskier safely behind him.  
  
It had taken less than a moment’s deliberation, for both of them. Their chances of breaking out of prison before their execution were relatively high. Losing Ciri in that moment...they wouldn’t let it happen, even if it meant getting thrown into a cell for a short time. Jaskier had given a willful little nod before they revealed themselves, his eyes not leaving Ciri’s frightened face. Not even for a second.  
  
As soon as they were noticed, however, Ciri’s fear of death was replaced with fear of a different nature. Fear of losing more people that were dear to her. With a little Geralt-growl of her own, she stomped her heeled boot down on the foot of the man holding her captive. His grip relented fractionally and she swiveled and kneed him in his unarmored groin - _that_ had him howling in pain, releasing her instinctively.  
  
Having regained full mobility, she spun around him as he made to grab her again, side-stepping his lurching attacks with easy, fluid movements, hopping up on his back when it was turned. From there, she caught him in a stranglehold, tightening her grip; the man spluttered and gasped as his airway was cut off by delicate fingers with expert precision.  
  
Annika took the hint - the distraction allowed her to break free from the man holding her. He’d made the mistake of releasing one of her arms to draw his weapon, and with just a few words, she knocked him back.  
  
She swiftly uttered another enchantment and sent a swarm of corrosive, dark mist at the guard who had spat on her. Who had punched her with a heavy, metal fist. It tangled around his limbs, melting and distorting his armor, his spear.  
  
He managed to drop to the ground, hastily slipping his helmet off, his bracers and chest-plate. Everything, until he was in nothing but his small-clothes, squeaking and covering himself with what remained of his weapon.  
  
“Oh, poor _you_. Seems you were overcompensating with that large spear of yours.” Annika languidly stepped forward, overjoyed at getting to use her magic to hurt again. “We can still play, though.”  
  
She readied a killing blow, hands oustretched towards the terrified, red-faced man, when a sword came up to her throat and stopped her short.  
  
Another soldier. Ciri had been wrestled to the ground, hands pinned behind her back. Her face was coated in dust and dirt. Despite the fact that she’d managed to knock out one man and clobber quite a few more (with the broad sides of their own weapons), she was no match for their numbers.  
  
With one swift movement, Geralt chopped down the men holding her, releasing her from their grasp. Which was, coincidentally, when all hell broke loose.  
  
The head guard, possibly their commander, recovered from the outburst and shouted orders for them to be taken in, dead or alive. Ciri as well, as she’d proven herself to be one of Geralt’s allies.  
  
Jaskier ducked under the fray that had exploded around them. He managed to find a stray stone and - apologizing profusely as he did - bashed the man who was holding Annika at sword-point in the skull, sending him collapsing to the ground, unconscious.  
  
“We need to get out of here, Geralt’s going to carve a path.” Jaskier grabbed the sleeve of Annika’s shirt, yelping and tugging her out of the way as another soldier came barreling at them. “Fucking hell, this - this is _madness_. There’s far too many. Where’s Geralt? Ciri?”  
  
They found each other somewhere in the middle, Geralt doing his best to fend off their countless opponents - it was difficult, to be sure, having to remain mindful enough to protect the other three. Ciri held her own quite well, parrying and pirouetting as he’d taught her, but he was still expending precious energy and focus to compensate for her flawed, inexperienced technique.  
  
And there were far too many soldiers, crowding them in, trying to either kill them or bind them. Jaskier barely dodged an arrow, and Annika shoved him back behind her before she dispatched the bowman by causing the building above him to crumble.  
  
Their forces were overwhelming and someone managed to separate Ciri from Geralt. They’d been back to back, making it easier for him to keep her out of harm’s way. But now, she had a sword aimed directly at her heart. Less than a hair’s breadth away.  
  
All four of them froze. The fighting came to a halt.  
  
“Stop!” Geralt barked, raising his blade in surrender. “ _Don’t_. We’ll come quietly. Let the girl go.”  
  
The commander stepped forward, and though they couldn’t see his face behind his helm, Jaskier could tell by his voice that he was smirking. Smugly. _Meanly_.  
  
“A wise choice, Witcher.” He jerked his head towards a few of the men that had been chasing them around with shackles rather than weapons. “You’re under arrest for the attempted murder of Lord Jannick and his son, among other despicable crimes against their family. You’ll be tried and hanged in the morning. Take them. Bring the child in for questioning, as well.”  
  
Just as they were about to be bound and carted off, a volley of arrows descended upon them from behind. Jaskier quickly went to pull Ciri down, Annika and Geralt doing the same. But the arrows weren’t aimed at them.  
  
They whistled by, spearing the first line of soldiers, who fell like flies. A shout from behind had another barrage coming, taking out several more.  
  
Jaskier swiveled around to see what exactly was happening - and abruptly found himself faced with a sea of hardened, angry faces. Their garb was varied, but it had all been dyed a distinctive combination of maroon and gray. And they were armed to the _teeth_ \- though between them all, he guessed they only had about one good set of those.  
  
One face in particular had him gasping, eyes widening to the size of saucers.  
  
“W- _Wade_? What the _hell_ \- ?”  
  
The massive man nodded cordially at him, readying his axe.  
  
“Criminals defending criminals? This is preposterous!” The commander, whose shield was held protectively over his head and stuck with innumerable arrows. “They’re a pox on our city. Forget niceties - kill them all, _now_!”  
  
Soldiers and the men of Forle’s gang met at the center of the street, the fight resuming and bringing with it even more chaos. Geralt acted quickly, recovering from the surprise attack faster than the rest. His voice was a deep roar, batting away a stray soldier still hell-bent in capturing them.  
  
“To the alley, _now_ \- ”  
  
He was interrupted by a spear sinking into his bicep, and when he swirled around, found he was facing the commander. With a low growl, he jerked his arm back, the weapon sliding out with a small spurt of blood. He glared at the man who had threatened his charge. This would be over quickly.  
  
Jaskier took it upon himself to at least get Annika and Ciri out of the worst of it. Geralt could hold his own against the tide of bodies moving and fighting around them. He ushered them towards the alley, face softening at Ciri’s fiercely stubborn demeanor.  
  
“ _No_! Geralt’s hurt, I _know_ he’s strong but look how many - ”  
  
“Oh, he can handle himself. You’ve done _wonderfully_ , my dear, but we must get the _fuck_ away from here as expediently as possible. Those men are bad news.” He affectionately brushed some dirt from her cheek. “Don’t worry - I’ll make sure Geralt comes, too. All right?”  
  
The girl’s eyes lingered nervously over his shoulder for a moment before she nodded. Her combat prowess was already remarkable, having learned so much under Geralt’s wing, but she was still just a _child_. It was their responsibility to keep her safe.  
  
Without a word, Annika grabbed her sleeve and yanked her into the shadows, away from the raging battle. Jaskier turned to see how Geralt was faring when something hard connected with the back of his head. The blunt end of a weapon, something he was becoming quite accustomed to.  
  
Pain exploded in his skull. His legs gave out and he pitched forwards from impact, though there was little time to recover as large hands flipped him onto his back and he found himself facing the expressionless metal visage of one of the arch duke’s soldiers.  
  
“I’m going to get that bounty, bard. If you stop struggling, I won’t kill you.”  
  
Jaskier thrashed about, kicking him - though it hurt his own foot more as it connected with an armored shin. “Somehow, I _very_ much doubt that!”  
  
The man was on top of him, wrestling with his flailing arms in an attempt to cuff him. A fist connected with Jaskier’s cheek, the force of it causing his vision to go a bit weird for a moment.  
  
He pawed at the large form bearing down on him when suddenly, a stiletto blade lodged itself in the soldier’s skull, piercing the metal of his helm.  
  
The body sagged and Jaskier shrieked as blood seeped out through the slats of the man’s closed visor, dripping steadily onto the thin material of his blouse. Staining his chest. Too much red, too fast for such a small wound.  
  
With a disgusted, retching sound, he managed to lug the dead man off and get to his knees. Quickly, he whirled around to see where the dagger had come from, to see who his savior had been. Ready to shout at Ciri or Annika if they had returned to help -  
  
It wasn’t Ciri. _Or_ Annika.  
  
“Oh, _fuck_ no. No, no, _absolutely_ not.” Jaskier shook his head and crawled backwards, face going pale. Everyone was fighting now, a full-on street war - much as Yen had predicted - the clash of steel ringing in his ears. “Gods, what have we stepped in?”  
  
Amid all the mayhem sat _Forle_. Several yards away, perched atop a broken-down carriage that had been left on the side of the road. He was lounging like a cat in the pale moonlight, unaffected by the men battling below and balancing a second dagger on nimble fingers.  
  
His other arm, the handless one, was bundled in silken, maroon wrappings and tied neatly, tightly with white string. It obscured any vision one might have of the healing stump and somehow, only added to his elegant appearance.  
  
When Jaskier made eye contact, Forle stopped flipping the knife about and blew him a little kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself snort picturing Forle not revealing himself to Jaskier until he was posed somewhere for dramatic effect, acting super casual about it.


	43. Chapter 43

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope it’s not TOO much jumping around, there were certain POVs I wanted for certain scenes! The first is kind of omniscient, the rest are determined by the first character mentioned :)
> 
> Came back and added a bit more dialogue at the end, I do love my verbal sparring!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt’s story arc: make sure we all get out alive  
> Jaskier’s: find perfect name for grumpy bf

**Three Days Prior**

It was morning, just after breakfast. Too early for gambling, and a patrol of guards had been spotted snooping around the area, leaving them cooped up in their rooms.  
  
Geralt was perched on a short stool just barely off the floor, resting his back against the mattress and poring over a book Ciri had brought for him from the arch duke’s library. A book on elven history, told by humans. Riddled with inaccuracies, but an interesting read if one looked beyond the false tales of bravery and heroics.  
  
Above him, Jaskier was strewn across the bed, laying on his belly, legs occasionally batting the air. Propped up by his elbows to allow him to diligently attend to the task at hand.  
  
He was fiddling with Geralt’s hair, armed with a boar-bristle brush. With his free hand, Geralt held a small bowl of water. Warmed by the sign glowing gently in his palm. He occasionally moved it so Jaskier could wet the brush - his eyes didn’t leave the book as he did, easily anticipating the bard’s wants and needs.  
  
“Does this hurt?” Jaskier’s voice was a low murmur as he eased his way through a particularly nasty tangle. How Geralt managed to treat that magnificent mane so poorly was beyond him; after a battle or even half a day of minimal activity, it always ended up a veritable rat’s nest.  
  
“No.”  
  
A cool hand came up and stroked the short stubble that had already come in after his shave last night. Fingers traveled lightly along his jaw before gliding up, pulling the rest of his hair back to be dealt with.  
  
“Sometimes I prefer you with less beard, you know. It lets me see your lovely chin.” And cheekbones. The man had cheekbones for _days_.  
  
“Good to know.” Geralt never really paid much attention to his own appearance; silently, though, he found himself filing that knowledge away. Please your mate, shave more frequently.  
  
Once all the tangles were out, Jaskier’s long fingers started working white hair into a loose, low ponytail. Geralt wouldn’t want something tight, he didn’t think. When he wasn’t all suited up in heavy armor, the older man preferred loose-fitting shirts - though the pants he tucked them into were often _incredibly_ form-fitting.  
  
The nearly-inaudible sigh of relief that escaped Geralt’s lips upon having his hair swept off his neck told Jaskier his assumptions had been correct. He used the thin black string he’d been holding between his lips to tie it off in a neat little bow. Taking a moment to admire his work, finding it was missing something.  
  
There was a small glass vase of assorted flowers by the bed and he reached over and plucked one from it, stealthily tucking it into the band.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
Geralt licked his pointer finger, flipped a page. Absentmindedly offered a soft, thoughtful “hm.”  
  
“By any chance, do you remember my never-ending quest to find a suitable pet name for you?”  
  
A half-hearted groan. “Does this one have anything to do with the flower you just put in my hair?”  
  
“Oh, how did you - nothing gets by you, does it?” Rarely, if ever, Jaskier knew. He eyed the tiny, yellow flower dubiously. “Anyway, how about _buttercup_?”  
  
“Your moniker translates to buttercup.” Geralt craned his head back to look into the other man’s eyes. Chuckling when he received a light, chiding tap on the forehead that had him turning back to his book, allowing the bard to continue toying with his hair. “Bordering on narcissistic with that one, Jaskier.”  
  
“I’ll have you know that to my adoring fans, the name Jaskier means far more than ‘buttercup,’ _Geralt_. It’s synonymous with euphonious... _symphonies_.” He was making it up as he went along, of course. His grandstanding abilities were, as of yet, unrivaled. “Unimaginable pleasures, both of the ear and of the...well, I think _you_ know better than anyone, by now. _Jaskier_ also stands for - ”  
  
“Delusions of grandeur?” A pause. Another page flip, his next words carrying the hint of a teasing smile. “Complete lack of self-awareness?”  
  
“Ha- _ha_. Solitary has turned you into _quite_ the comedian, I see.”  
  
With his work done, Jaskier reluctantly removed his hands from where they’d been toying with the end of the ponytail. At the loss of contact, Geralt turned to him, setting the book face-down on his knee. There was an oddly serious look on his face.  
  
“I meant to tell you...” he trailed off, frowning at Jaskier’s doublet. Around the area where the bolt had pierced him. Where a scarred symbol now sat, just above his heart, a constant reminder. “before. I don’t care what you call me. I’ll always come, as soon as you do.”  
  
“Well, that sort of defeats the purpose of a lover’s _sobriquet_ ,” Jaskier rolled the ‘r’ for effect, “doesn’t it? It has to be _special_ , Geralt.”  
  
“Whatever you settle on will be special.” He thought back to ‘baby’ and ‘bunny.’ Something about plugging holes. “Or terrible.”  
  
A suddenly mischievous expression crossed the bard’s face as he flipped onto his back, regarding Geralt playfully from his new upside-down angle. “Wait - does _this_ mean - ”  
  
“Not that one.”  
  
“But Ger- _bear_ \- ”  
  
“ _No_. Anything else.” Another sly look from the bard. “Within reason. I needed you to know it’s less important to me than...this.” He nodded to how they were positioned, how they were talking and touching so freely and intimately. “In case...”  
  
“Ah, right. In case I have to think of something on the fly again, and go to an early grave referring to you by a name as atrocious as ‘honey bun?’”  
  
Geralt huffed a laugh, though it wasn’t really a laugh. More a puff of air, taken aback by Jaskier’s casual tone. “I wouldn’t have put it so lightly, but yes.”  
  
He swiveled back around and resumed his reading; Jaskier flopped over yet again and rested his chin on Geralt’s broad shoulder, peering curiously at weathered pages. “What is it about?”  
  
“Elves. The history of what happened to them here. One version, at least.”  
  
“Oh.” Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip. “Like _him_? Does it explain why he’s so...I don’t know, damaged? Deranged? He did say he was centuries old. Old and full of shite, just like your book.”  
  
“Perhaps. It’s the same story as everywhere else. A slaughter. Those who survived fled while their settlements and loved ones burned.” His voice was distant, thoughtful. “Lingering on that hate and fear would destroy even the strongest mind, over time.”  
  
Jaskier scowled, trying to picture a different Forle in his head - one without fangs and horns and blood dribbling from cherry-red lips. That endeavor failed miserably. “Considering he wasn’t born like that, you mean. Wrong, and... _twisted_.”  
  
“That’s the popular question these days.”  
  
“What is?” His tirelessly curious nature had him back to playing with the ponytail, marveling at how soft Geralt’s hair was - when it had been tamed by a comb, at least. When he spoke again, he took on a surly, everyman’s tone. “‘How did Forle get like...you know, _that_?’”  
  
Geralt snorted. “No. Whether monsters are born or bred.” A certain princess came to mind. He closed the book and set it aside. Thoughts for a different day. Besides, another spirited brunette required his undivided attention. “Let’s go back down. I’m sure the guards have moved on by now.” 

♜ ♖

 **Present Day**

“You’ve ruined my blouse.” Jaskier bluntly informed the elf, gesturing to the red that stained what had been lily-white fabric. He had to speak quite loud over the din around them, but it was worth the effort as long as Forle knew his presence was utterly unwanted. “And subsequently, my _evening_. What the hell are you playing at with all this? What’s in it for you?”  
  
The only response he got was a cheeky little smile. Eyes darting to the scar on his left breast, visible above the loose neckline of his shirt, beneath drying blood. This was followed by a nod at the general madness raging behind him, as if urging him to pay attention.  
  
He glared at Forle for a long moment, though he wasn’t allowed the luxury of wrestling with the several emotions that ran through his mind upon seeing his tormentor (terror, disgust, confusion). Before he knew it, another soldier was upon him, trying to wrangle him back into the fray.  
  
“Oi - hands off the merchandise!” Jaskier instinctively grasped at the metal arm wrapped about his neck, trying to turn around and fend off his attacker, though the grip was unrelenting.  
  
The bard choked and gasped for air but the arm only tightened its hold. Forle was still there, but made no move to help. Made no move to do much of anything, actually. _Prick_.  
  
Jaskier stomped on a foot, finding it armored as well. Elbowed an unforgivingly hard, plated chest before resuming his attempts to remove the limb from where it was cutting off his windpipe.  
  
White spots started invading his vision and he was dragged back a few more paces, his legs terribly wobbly, folding beneath his weight like a fawn learning to walk.  
  
His oxygen-starved brain vaguely wondered if Geralt was all right. The last he’d seen - the body behind him eased him down to the floor as his vision tunneled and all thoughts of Geralt vanished. The alternating whiteness and bright spots of colored light that crowded his sight forced him to zero in on Forle, where he was _still_ sat upon the carriage.  
  
Cocking his head to the side, long hair cascading over one shoulder. Wetting his lips and watching intently as the light left Jaskier’s ocean blue irises. Something cold clamped around the bard’s left wrist as he was guided down to the bloodstained, dusty ground by his attacker, eyes fluttering back -  
  
The elf waved, mouthing what _looked_ suspiciously like a cute, friendly little “buh-bye” as Jaskier slipped into blessed unconsciousness.

♜ ♖

Geralt’s deadly dance with the commander had brought them to the center of the chaotic street, though its participants naturally created a circle around them, caught up in tussles of their own.  
  
He’d smelled Jaskier’s honey-amber scent at some point, amplified by the primal, sweating fear seeping from his pores. Followed by something else, wafting up into Geralt’s nostrils - the bard’s blood. Though it wasn’t buckets, not the smell of death approaching, of life seeping out through a fatal wound, it panicked him.  
  
If Jaskier hadn’t been able to get away...several scenarios came to mind. Made worse by the _second_ familiar smell permeating the air. Sinister. Suspiciously _floral_.  
  
Immediately, he tried ending the fight and running to Jaskier’s aid, but the commander had jabbed his thigh with that massive spear, fixing him in place.  
  
As if to tell the Witcher his focus should be on him and him alone. As if their fight meant anything. If only he knew how small he was in the general scope of things, with Geralt’s lover lost somewhere on an urban battlefield, in the midst of chaos, bleeding and scared.  
  
He hadn’t gotten the memo, was intent on taking Geralt to the castle one way or another. It was time to teach him exactly how insignificant he was.  
  
With one swift movement, he cut the spear digging into his tendons, nearly severing another hand in the process - though the commander had the good sense to reel back in time.  
  
After that, he yanked the weapon out with a soft spurt of blood. The wooziness that came over him informed him an artery might have been nicked. His body worked overtime to repair the damage, a fraction faster than nature intended - though a fraction was all he needed.  
  
He didn’t pause, not even for a moment. Now wielding two weapons - half a spear and his sword - he charged, cleanly cutting through steel and a fleshy abdomen.  
  
His opponent doubled over, clutching the wound, backing away. It wasn’t fatal. Geralt was tired of his training getting in the way of an otherwise satisfying kill, but his opponent had no weapon. Who lived, who died - it wasn’t a Witcher’s choice to make and he knew that. Human affairs. Human casualties. His ultimate goal was to survive and slay monsters. His personal goal was to keep his own safe from harm.  
  
And the commander would likely die at the hands of one of Forle’s men, anyhow, as they had quickly overwhelmed his forces and he was now unarmed and wounded. Easy prey.  
  
None of it mattered. Ciri and Annika, their scents were far away. They’d gotten out. But Jaskier’s was close. He gripped both weapons tightly, fighting off anyone who approached him with ease, trying to pinpoint where exactly the source of the smell was. 

♜ ♖

Jaskier was only unconscious for a split second. Like jolting in and out of interminable blackness. That moment when you’re drifting off to sleep and it feels like falling.  
  
He woke to warm arms enveloping him. A cooling hand on his bruised cheekbone.  
  
Jaskier’s eyes blinked open and where he expected to see Geralt, alive and well, he found Forle staring down at him. A strange look on his face. They were both on the ground, Forle’s legs folded beneath him, Jaskier cradled in his lap.  
  
“Welcome back, pe - ”  
  
Without thinking, Jaskier reeled his fist back and punched him in the face. Hard. And it felt _good_. Pushing him away, managing to stand despite the residual dizziness. Put at least a couple feet of space between them, though there wasn’t much resistance. At least a good deal less than he expected.  
  
The elf was still kneeling on the ground. He frowned and furrowed perfectly arched, pale brows, the bulge of his tongue visible under his lips as it made sure all his teeth were still there. After a moment, he got to his feet, his single hand rubbing and stretching a sore jaw.  
  
“Well. That was rude.”  
  
“ _That_ was - ?” Jaskier shook his head, absolutely _flabbergasted_ by Forle’s complete lack of self-awareness. Pot, meet kettle. “Are you - _what_? You - you watched a man strangle me and did _nothing_! Just now, literally _moments_ ago. Yet _I’m_ rude? You - you - ”  
  
He had gotten to the point of frustration where words failed him, his arms gesticulating wildly in the air. Eventually, the only sounds that came out of his mouth were indignant stammers.  
  
Forle pointed to a body a few paces away, face left nearly unrecognizable beneath all the blood. From its ears, nose, mouth. Eyes. Nausea roiled in his gut at the sight of it - there were no visible stab wounds.  
  
“I killed him. For _you_.” There was a flash of anger in Forle’s eyes. Eerie in how misplaced it was. “It took a moment to gather myself. You looked so _pretty_ , just like - ”  
  
“Oh, just like _what_? Or should I say ‘ _whom_?’ Your latest victim? Another ‘pet?’” He jabbed an accusing finger at the body as well. Mere feet away from the first. “ _Him_? Sorry, it’s so bloody hard to keep track when you kill _everything_ you - ”  
  
Suddenly, half a spear sailed past Jaskier’s left shoulder and embedded itself in the ground at Forle’s feet. He didn’t flinch, merely flicked his gaze past the bard at whoever it belonged to.  
  
Jaskier had assumed it was from the battle raging around them, but with a groan, Forle spat at him and gestured to the glob of bloody saliva when it landed just an inch from the bard’s boot.  
  
“See? Spitting distance.”  
  
“Fuck you.” A hand landed on Jaskier’s shoulder, warm and rough and _reassuring_. He tilted his head to find Geralt. Face bloodied but fierce and confident, voice a deep rumble in his chest. “Why are you here? Why would you help?”  
  
Forle’s annoyance evolved into plain amusement, leading Jaskier to believe he knew something they didn’t. As per usual.  
  
“ _Why_ do you ask? Did you miss me?”  
  
The Witcher’s hand was now traveling down to Jaskier’s back, silently searching him for any injury. There was a cut on the back of his head, angry bruises forming on his face and neck. Upon further investigation, _he_ noticed the blood on Geralt’s pant leg, oozing wetly, too large of a stain, the man’s breathing was erratic in his ear -  
  
“Geralt, are you - ”  
  
“Tell us.” Geralt snarled, his eyes fixed on the elf before them. Wisely, the soldiers and gang members around them chose to avoid this fight as well. Both groups seemed to harbor a healthy fear of Forle, soldiers watching him carefully as they fought. He hadn’t yet drawn his sword. “ _Now_.”  
  
After a moment, Forle sighed. _Laboriously_.  
  
“Straightforward as ever. What, are you mad I interrupted your little rooftop _tryst_?”  
  
Geralt frowned at that, not understanding the correlation - Jaskier had a different take.  
  
“He called the guards.” The bard said suddenly, voice uncharacteristically cold. Angry. “ _He_ put Ciri in danger. Annika. _All_ of us. For what purpose?”  
  
“Sweet pet. You were never in any real danger.”  
  
The Witcher bristled at Forle’s casual use of that creepy fucking nickname. “Don’t call him that.”  
  
“A bit ironic, though, that he’s settled on a term of endearment with seemingly no problem at all.” Jaskier muttered, scowling. “ _Un_ settling as it is.”  
  
“Not now, Jaskier - ”  
  
Forle looked between them, raising a brow and going to deliver a snide remark of some sort when Geralt raised his blade with a growl.  
  
“The next words out of your mouth better be an answer, Forle.”  
  
“All right, all right. So _testy_. I’ve decided I’m going to assassinate the arch duke tonight. While his forces are... _otherwise_ occupied.” Forle took a step closer, hands raised in supplication when Geralt tensed. He gestured to the spit on the ground once more, as though it could somehow testify to his pure intentions.  
  
It didn’t, and they weren’t.  
  
The elf continued, unphased by Geralt’s narrowed eyes and Jaskier, trying desperately to form the word “ _what_?” through startled gasps and splutters.  
  
“And since you’re here, you’re going to help. Consider it one last dalliance. If not...well, do you really care to know?”


	44. Chapter 44

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this at a weird time today because animal crossing!!!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Forle’s backstory starts to...unfurl? Unforle? A lot of unnecessary innuendos sorry I can’t help IT next chapter we’ll see a bit of Annika/Ciri POV, and some shit will hit ze fan

“We have to go while his soldiers are busy with my men.” Forle had brought them to a quiet spot, one street over. They’d followed - keeping an eye out for an ambush - simply to get away from the battle.  
  
“We’re not going to help you.” Geralt grunted, sitting on a bench. He was pale, the snowy color of his skin made more drastic by a dark smear of blood on his cheek. “So you can fuck off now.”  
  
Jaskier’s concern was evident, reaching to touch the other man’s injured thigh - he was stopped suddenly by a large hand catching his midair. When he frowned and looked into Geralt’s eyes, he found only soft, gentle reassurance.  
  
“Geralt, you’re - ”  
  
“It’s fine, Jaskier. Healing as we speak.” He used his teeth to rip a piece of cloth from his sleeve, binding the wound. “The work of pricks wielding spears.”  
  
Not entirely convinced, though Jaskier managed to tear his eyes away from Geralt long enough to glare at Forle, who was still lingering nearby.  
  
“You heard him. Quit lurking and sod off, you one-handed cretin.”  
  
“Bold words for someone who still hasn’t realized they’ve been caught at a disadvantage.” Forle shrugged. “Guess I’ll have to threaten you after all.”  
  
That had Geralt standing, brandishing his sword. “Try it. See what happens.”  
  
“Challenge accepted, _Geralt_. Did you know your little witch turned him into a walking enchantment?” Forle nodded to Jaskier, who didn’t know what those words meant but somehow felt insulted by them all the same. “Did she mention that after defying the natural order of things and bringing him back to this world, she tethered him here with the simplest of incantations?”  
  
Geralt narrowed his eyes. “What are you talking about?”  
  
The elf stepped forward, gesturing to Jaskier’s chest. “Better to show you. May I?”  
  
They answered at the same time, at varying octaves.  
  
“Absolutely _not_!” A high-pitched yelp.  
  
“Fuck no.” A deep, throaty rumble.  
  
“I won’t hurt him. Why would I? I need your muscle to get to the arch duke’s chambers.” Forle tilted his head, smiling at Jaskier. “And aren’t you the least bit curious? I can see it in your lovely eyes. You want to know.”  
  
“Well, _yes_ , but...I’d rather not have your slimy hands groping me, thanks very much.” He frowned, and eventually sighed and relented - beside him, Geralt felt the change and tensed, hackles rising. “It’s all right, Geralt. If something went wrong with Annika’s spell - if there’s something wrong with _me_...well, we need to know, right? Go ahead. Try anything with that little hand of yours and I’ll...well, I’ll punch you again, for starters.”  
  
Geralt’s brow quirked at the use of the word ‘again.’ Noticed a bruise forming on Forle’s jaw. The bard, through all the residual fear and nightmares, had seized an impressive - if not somewhat misguided - flare of confidence. Punching Forle might have had something to do with it. For whatever reason, the thought and subsequent mental image made the Witcher feel a bit proud.  
  
“That’s a good pet.”  
  
Pride turned to irritation and disgust at the persistent use of that awful name.  
  
With Jaskier’s tentative permission - Geralt’s weapon at the ready, prepared to cut his foe down at any given moment - the elf reached out his hand and untied the top of the bard’s shirt, loosening it to reveal the scar.  
  
Two tanned fingers rested on his left breast, their earthy, umber color contrasting against the fair, jewel undertones of his own skin. Sliding down until they were directly on top of the symbol.  
  
His movements were irritatingly, painstakingly slow as they traced it. A slender thumb hovered over one small, pink nipple - during his ministrations it slipped, Jaskier cringing at the contact.  
  
“ _Watch_ it.” Geralt leveled the blade at Forle. “Unless you want to lose that hand, too.”  
  
“An accident, I assure you.” Forle simpered before removing the thumb and closing his eyes. He murmured a single word and the small, knotted sigil started to glow.  
  
It seemed to be peeling itself off Jaskier’s skin, bringing with it an oppressive feeling all around, as if the air was bearing down upon him. It was hard to breathe, hard to feel anything in his arms and legs, his whole _body_ , like he was being forced out of it, up and up -  
  
Forle broke contact and the glowing stopped instantly, Jaskier yanked back to reality, gasping and babbling incoherently. He teetered dangerously to one side, sagging into Geralt when the man wrapped a protective arm around him.  
  
“Jaskier?” A rough hand came up and cupped his cheek, Geralt’s face blurring before him, his vision swimming. “What the fuck did you do to him?”  
  
Geralt’s shouting was distant but sound came back slowly, as did touch and taste and sight.  
  
“It’s not about what _I_ did. It’s what happens when the symbol is damaged - by a blade, for instance. Or forcibly removed with magic, like you just saw.”  
  
“A little warning would have been _nice_!” Jaskier, finally able to speak again. Eyes wide and accusatory. “Gods, that was _awful_ , it felt...it felt like I - ”  
  
“Like you were dying again. Frivolous magic bears terrible consequences.” Forle watched as Jaskier quickly laced his shirt closed once more, denying him any sort of view. “You shouldn’t go flaunting that. Perhaps keep it bandaged, away from prying eyes. Even a novice sorcerer could get rid of it, reverting you back to your intended state. Your presence on this earth, though pleasant, is flimsy at best.”  
  
Geralt cursed, eyes not leaving Jaskier’s face, as if he might vanish in the next instant. Not good. Worse that Forle knew about it. He gently guided the bard away from their enemy until he was behind him. “Why are you telling us this?”  
  
“Certainly not out of the goodness of his heart.” Jaskier, from over his shoulder, squinting suspiciously at the elf.  
  
“Well, you can put two and two together.” Forle toyed with a frazzled bit of string hanging off the wrappings around his handless wrist, looking bored. “It’s just, I find blackmail to be _such_ tedious work. No, I know what you’re going to say - ‘Forle, you are a _professional_. Don’t shirk your duties.’”  
  
“Nope, not at all - perhaps _more_ shirking.” Jaskier retorted quickly, not liking where any of this was going. “Yes, more. That’s my suggestion. You simply don’t shirk enough, I think.”  
  
“To answer your question,” Forle turned to Geralt, who hadn’t voiced the plan he’d already started forming in his head, “yes, I _will_ be able to deactivate the enchantment before you cut me down. So let’s not go there. Now, can I count you in?”  
  
With an annoyed groan, Geralt nodded. Yen was almost certainly at the castle. She’d be able to stop them before the assassination. Protect Jaskier and get him to safety before Forle could set off the ticking time bomb on his chest.  
  
Too many uncertainties. He didn’t like going into any situation feeling as blind as he did in that moment. But there was no doubt in his mind that the elf would kill Jaskier the very second he stepped out of line.  
  
They’d go to the castle. He’d find a way to signal Yen. If not, he was prepared to keep them safe - by any means necessary.

♜ ♖

Forle had offered to portal them there, but there was no way Geralt was letting _that_ happen (hated portals, and the chances of him taking them somewhere dubious were far too high) and the elf refused to let them stray too far. So they navigated through alleys and empty streets, making their way towards the castle on foot.  
  
It was a good sign; it told Geralt that the elf needed to be close to Jaskier to undo Annika’s enchantment. If there was an opportunity to put some distance between them, even for a moment, he’d have enough time to kill Forle with one sure strike.  
  
Until then, they were forced to take a casual stroll through the seemingly deserted city with their wicked blackmailer.  
  
And Jaskier was a bundle of nerves. When he got nervous, he also tended to get nearly intolerably chatty.  
  
Normally, Geralt would silence him in the usual way - grabbing him by the waist, pulling him close. Quieting him with a long kiss.  
  
He didn’t, knowing Forle would enjoy that a little too much.  
  
“Why _are_ you so obsessed with me?” Jaskier asked after awhile. There it was - the need to fill the silence with words. It was a topic that had been eating at him, anyway. “Apart from obvious reasons. Like my irresistible charm and dashing good looks.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes. He didn’t like where this was headed, but Jaskier was like a dog with a bone. When he had a question, he wouldn’t relent until he got an answer. Always trying to understand more about people, while Geralt had been cursed with the knowledge that sometimes monsters were just that. Precious little rhyme or reason existed in the world he’d come to know.  
  
Forle didn’t turn around. He was walking confidently ahead of them, and when he spoke his tone was so casual, so _comfortable_ , as if he wasn’t currently holding the pair hostage.  
  
“You remind me of someone. Your looks, the way that you are.”  
  
Jaskier snorted. “I find _that_ highly unlikely. I’m one of a kind.” When Forle said nothing in return, curiosity got the better of him. “All right, I’ll bite. Who is this doubtlessly _lovely_ creature?”  
  
“ _Was_.” Forle corrected him, sounding amused. “My first kill.”  
  
“Oh, good. Great.” The bard surreptitiously edged closer to Geralt, who took his hand, eyes drilling threatening holes into Forle’s back. “Can we just - can we maybe forget that I asked?”  
  
“You don’t want to know how I did it?”  
  
“N-no, absolutely _not_ , I _really_ don’t need specifics - ”  
  
“I strangled him with my bare hands. In the heat of the moment, of course.” The color drained from Jaskier’s face, immediately thinking of the bruises on his own throat. “So hard that the vessels in his pretty blue eyes popped and bled. His neck fractured, too, but he was still alive when I - ”  
  
“That’s enough.” Geralt snarled suddenly, tightening his grip on Jaskier’s fingers. They were clammy. Pulse racing. He was scared. It pissed him off, the fact that Forle was using his innocent curiosity to instill more fear. “No more talking. He’s saying whatever he thinks will frighten you. Fucking twat.”  
  
Forle cackled, shoulders shaking with it, before letting out a dreamy sigh. He still hadn’t turned around, hollow laughter bouncing off the alley walls long after it had subsided. “Perhaps.”  
  
For some reason, though, Jaskier found himself believing at least part of the story. The look on Forle’s face when that soldier had been wringing his neck - there was too much _interest_ in those unnerving eyes. He very well could have been reliving some previous, brutal murder.  
  
And he vaguely remembered what Forle had started to say when Jaskier came to and punched him. ‘Just like...’  
  
Chills danced up and down his spine at the thought. He shivered for dramatic effect, as if trying to shake off the nightmare fuel Forle had just provided.  
  
“ _Yikes_. There goes any chance of sleep in the near future.”  
  
“Don’t let him under your skin.” Geralt murmured back, squeezing his hand again as they walked. “Let him try while I’m here, with his fucking one-handed, four-fingered - ”  
  
Suddenly, the words died in his throat and he staggered - Jaskier barely managed to catch him, supporting half his weight, eyes wide with concern and confusion.  
  
“Geralt, what’s - “ Geralt glared down at his thigh, the makeshift bandage around it heavy with blood. “Your leg - y-you said it was _fine_ , why - ”  
  
“Too deep.” He took an experimental step, cringing at how weak the limb felt. This wasn’t the time or place for weakness. Without pause, he brought his palm to the wound. “Won’t fucking close. I’ll - ”  
  
Jaskier caught the hand before he could do it, shaking his head. The heat that had already burst from rough fingers was uncomfortable, but he didn’t care; he couldn’t watch the other man do that to himself again.  
  
“Geralt, my whole _heart_ , you know I do so _adore_ every inch of your wonderful, massive, _well_ -formed...” he trailed off, noticing the wicked, wolfish amusement in Geralt’s eyes. Impressively managed through the hot pain lancing down his injured leg. “ _body_. Gods, don’t - I was talking about your _body_ , not that...I mean, _that_ as well, but...bollocks, you’ve gone and distracted me now. Where was I going with this?”  
  
Geralt leaned his back against the wall for support, smirking affectionately at the bard. He always became red-faced and scatterbrained like that when discussing certain aspects of the Witcher’s _assets_. Needed a gentle reminder to get him back on track.  
  
“You were stopping me from cauterizing my leg.”  
  
“ _Right_. Love your body, scars and all. That was the point of...that. But let’s not add more by jumping to self-inflicted _burns_ every time we get a flesh wound. Just let me look at it first, okay?” He shot a look at Forle, who had stopped a few paces ahead, turning to see what was holding them up. “This had better not be your doing.”  
  
The elf raised his arms - trying to look innocent as could be, though everything about his _essence_ , the silken maliciousness of his voice, canceled it out.  
  
“That hurts, Jaskier. I would never.” He wiggled the fingers of his hand. “Besides, I’d need to touch his blood. Without that, I’m completely harmless.”  
  
“Yeah, sure. Harmless my _arse_. You do realize you threaten to kill me nearly every time we meet?”  
  
Geralt watched as Jaskier got to his knees, removing the cloth and examining the injury. “Might be poison, slowing the process. A burn would be more efficient.”  
  
“Oh. Gods. It does look like it’s trying to close.” Jaskier studied the blood oozing sluggishly, the skin around it shifting fractionally. “U-um, should...should I - I don’t know, suck it out, or something? You know, that’s - people do that, right? With poison? I’d only do it for you. That is one icky, _bloody_ cut...”  
  
Silence followed, and Jaskier peered up to see Geralt had forced himself to look away by jerking his head to the side, jaw working overtime. Once again, he couldn’t blush, but the expression on his face was about as close as it got. Too much, with Jaskier kneeling before him, casually inquiring about _sucking_ things.  
  
After a long moment, he finally forced himself to mutter a very reluctant, “no, Jaskier.” And then added, “it’s already worked its way into my system, there would be no point.”  
  
“Right. Um...” Jaskier’s cheeks were bright pink, the ferocity of his blush making up for Geralt’s lack thereof.  
  
In their defense, the last two weeks had been filled with little more than sly innuendos and minimal touching. Far longer than either of them were used to going without congress, though the residual, lingering awkwardness that enjoyed rearing its ugly head in moments like these only served to prolong their infernal dry spell.  
  
Adding to that, they seemed hell-bent on proving that no amount of injury, threat of death, or unsavory elves lurking in the corner could keep their incessant flirting at bay.  
  
“ _Love_ the sexual tension. _Hate_ how long this is taking.” The unsavory elf himself was leaning against the opposite wall, arms crossed over his chest. His rich voice and the reminder of his presence nearly sent Jaskier into cardiac arrest. “Soldiers here coat their spears in a nasty agent that prevents clotting. To secure kills, torture prisoners. Bind it tighter this time. His mutation will take care of the rest.”  
  
“Bloody _hell_ \- will you please refrain from _skulking_ in the shadows?”  
  
“Mind your fucking business.” Geralt growled, glaring at the elf. It was a fine line, establishing dominance without pissing their enemy off further. Especially now, with Jaskier’s life in the balance. “Bastard’s right, though. If you won’t let me burn it shut, a tighter bandage will seal it until I work off the poison.”  
  
Jaskier nodded, his blush gone and replaced with a serious expression. He tore a strip of cloth from his pant leg, made from a sturdier material, and tied the wound off tightly. His hand lingered on Geralt’s thigh a moment longer before he stood.  
  
“We don’t have all night.” Forle pushed himself off the wall with a sigh. “The castle is just up ahead. Ready your weapon, Geralt. And don’t stray too far, pet.”


	45. Chapter 45

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry more didn’t happen here! Thought I’d spare you from a considerably more dramatic cliffhanger and keep the chaos contained within next chapter! I also enjoy Ciri’s interactions with just about anyone, she’s so cute and smort. Also somewhat feral.

Annika peered around the corner, watching a small group of soldiers hustling away from the main fight. She turned back to Ciri, sighing heavily.  
  
“Something’s going down. They’re headed back to the castle. Let’s go. We’ll find somewhere to hide until all this blows over - ”  
  
Ciri, who had been taking stock of the sword she’d managed to swipe from one of her opponents, looked up in surprise. “ _Hide_?”  
  
“Yes, hide - ”  
  
“ - but Geralt and Jaskier - ”  
  
“ - are _fine_. I saw them get out with that creepy fucking elf.”  
  
Ciri gave her a withering look, putting a hand on her hip. “You mean the _crime lord_ that tormented Jaskier so terribly he still has nightmares? Nearly took Geralt down in battle? _That_ elf?”  
  
“He’s got one bloody hand, I don’t think he’ll pose much of a threat - ”  
  
The girl wasn’t listening any longer. She secured the blade on her belt, rolling up the legs of her pants to allow for better mobility.  
  
Before she could turn to leave, Annika grabbed her arm, irritated at being ignored.  
  
“Listen here, you insolent - ”  
  
She yanked the arm away. “Why on earth should I listen to _you_?”  
  
“Because I’m bigger. And I’m stronger. And I _said_ so.”  
  
Perhaps not the most sound argument, Annika realized belatedly. She wasn’t very good with kids, had little experience dealing with them - they rarely came calling upon the local ‘swamp hag.’  
  
“We need to help them.” Ciri crossed her arms over her chest, looking _so_ incredibly judgmental - that only served to fuel Annika’s annoyance. “They’d do the same for you.”  
  
“And that’s what makes them _idiots_. You are acting like a spoiled _brat_. Jaskier entrusted me with your safety, and I will drag you out of here, kicking and screaming if I...” Annika trailed off suddenly, staggering forward. Ciri forgot her anger and quickly hurried to her side, a small but strong hand grabbing her elbow and steadying her. “ _Fucking hell_.”  
  
“What is it? Jaskier?”  
  
“Yes, but...” Annika undid the top of her tunic, peering down at the spot to the left and above the linen wrappings supporting her chest. The skin there was unmarked, but the strange feeling lingered. “Odd. I could have sworn I felt...it was like someone was trying to _remove_...”  
  
“Remove what?”  
  
“His seal.”  
  
“Seal...” Ciri paled. “You’re talking about that awful scar on his chest - the blood magic one? What would that mean for him?”  
  
Annika shrugged, trying to shake off the remnants of whatever had just overcome her. “Nothing good.”  
  
“I’m going to need you to elaborate, Annika.” Ciri released her elbow when she was sure the witch wouldn’t topple over. “What happens if the seal is removed?”  
  
“I don’t bloody _know_!” Annika hissed, still self-consciously scrubbing at the spot on her chest with the palm of her hand. “I didn’t think it was something that _could_ be removed. I thought it was just a memento of some sort? You know, like a reminder of what happened. Not actually tied to his...”  
  
Ciri frowned, thinking back to one of her lessons with Yen. The sorceress had impressively vast knowledge of all magical arts, forbidden or otherwise, and usually included them in her lectures. Making sure the girl knew never to dabble, of course.  
  
“When you brought him back, what was it like? Was he already gone? Did you have to go looking for him, or was it more like a resuscitation? Maybe a kiss, or something similar?”  
  
Annika thought about that for a moment. Bringing him back...she’d lost consciousness, but not _really_. Swimming through some dreadful _place_ , some dark cesspool. Somehow knowing she had to find that bright little light and bring it back.  
  
“He’d already gone cold. I didn’t _kiss_ him, _gods_. I guess...I remember floating around somewhere and seeing him. Not his physical form - I don’t know, I somehow just knew it was Jaskier. Snatched him up before he could wander off again.” Annika frowned. It was so blurry, as if it had happened years ago. “Shoved him back into his body. He was so fucking irritating even without a corporeal form. Just flitting about like a damn butterfly, trying to wriggle out of my hand - ”  
  
“Oh, Jaskier. That was his spirit you ‘shoved’ back in.” Ciri shook her head, worrying at her lower lip. Annika thought she looked older, rarely saw the girl speaking so seriously. “That seal is the only thing keeping him here, isn’t it? Almost like possession, right? You bound him to his body at a cost. That’s such simple magic, so easily dispelled. It would have been better to - ”  
  
“Don’t talk about it as if you were there.” The witch glowered at her, voice low and menacing. “Time is a privilege, one I couldn’t afford. I did what I had to in the moment. He’s breathing as he did before, talking as he did, still bloody _annoying_ as ever. Maybe the seal is a vulnerability, maybe I could have chosen a less unstable solution - but what difference does it make now? Need I remind you that the alternative was death?”  
  
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” A sigh, Ciri gazing over the rooftops of the alley at the castle. “But someone’s figured it out. That elf - _Forle_ \- is using it against them. Has to be. He wanted the arch duke’s crown, right? That’s what he tried getting Jaskier to steal...Yen. She’s at the castle. She’ll know what to do.”  
  
Suddenly, after that whirlwind of leaping to conclusion after conclusion, Ciri took off. Annika cursed, reluctantly following suit - the girl was surprisingly fast - because while she would much rather lay low, she was now the only actual adult in the immediate vicinity who _cared_. What a fucking burden. She reminded herself to slap Jaskier next time she saw him, for putting her in such a troublesome position.  
  
“ _Damn_ it. You put on quite the act during our time at the inn. Thought you were at least somewhat more reasonable than your comrades.” Annika huffed and rolled her eyes when Ciri turned back long enough to grab her hand, urging her to move faster. “Should’ve known you’re just like them - careening headfirst into danger all the bloody time. Absolutely no regard for your own safety. You know, the definition of insanity is - ”  
  
“Less talking.” Ciri muttered, though she couldn’t help the small smile that danced across her lips at being compared to Geralt in such a way. Though he often lectured about taking the middle ground, avoiding conflict, he always managed to find himself at the center of it all. And Jaskier, who had a penchant for near-death experiences - and thwarting them. _Most_ of the time. She was proud to be like them, regardless of Annika’s bitter tone. “More running.”

♜ ♖

By the time they made it to the center of the city it had started raining and thundering fiercely, making it difficult to see. They were all soaked to the bone, Geralt looking a big, wet, _angry_ cat - though the bard did appreciate the way his damp clothes clung to certain places.  
  
And the castle was eerily silent. Jaskier peered up at its dark windows, no signs of life within aside from two torches fixed on either side of the main entrance, protected from the deluge by intimidatingly tall walls.  
  
“Well, there you are. Looks like you’ve got a clear path cut out for you. No need for that extra muscle, right? Geralt and I will just be off now - _hey_!”  
  
Geralt fisted a hand in the back of his shirt, dragging him back when he’d tried casually sauntering off. It needed to look like they were on board with Forle’s plan, at least for the time being.  
  
“We’re seeing this through, Jaskier.” Geralt argued firmly, speaking over Jaskier’s protests. “Killing the arch duke works in our favor. No better way to clear a bounty.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Let’s just murder everyone who gets in our way. That’s how we solve things nowadays - ”  
  
Geralt shot him a look and Jaskier quieted down, finally catching on - the other man wouldn’t actually justify an assassination for his own personal gain.  
  
Hopefully that meant he had some semblance of a plan. One that didn’t involving killing a _relatively_ innocent man - a man who might become king, no less - and possibly inciting the wrath of every noble ally in the land.  
  
One that also didn’t involve Jaskier’s untimely death. That would be preferable - making it out alive, not being torn from this earth like an overgrown weed; the out-of-body experience that had been forced upon him lingered like a foul taste in the back of his mouth. It was something he never, ever wanted to feel again.  
  
Additionally, he and Geralt hadn’t yet made it to the coast. Hadn’t yet been able to freely discuss how they felt about each other. Hadn’t yet _slept_ together, not since he’d regained his memories...  
  
And the memories were distant things, fleetingly relived as a passenger. He flat-out _refused_ to leave this mortal coil before getting to experience the pleasure of jumping those _marvelous_ bones in real time -  
  
_Gods_. Jaskier shook the thought from his mind as Forle and Geralt approached the entrance. _Not the time. No matter how complicated, and... _sexy_ the situation with Geralt is. Sort your bloody priorities_.  
  
They crept through the castle, still alarmingly empty. Forle informed them that the arch duke’s chambers were tucked away in a far corner. No doubt crawling with guards that had stayed back to protect him in case a situation like this one arose.  
  
“Most of his forces are still scattered about the city. You should be able to handle whoever’s guarding his chambers. I’d prefer not to get my hands unnecessarily... _dirty_.” Forle drawled, eyes landing on Jaskier as he spoke the last word.  
  
Jaskier snorted, unable to contain himself. “Just the one hand, you mean?” Upon remembering who he was speaking to, quickly added, “please don’t kill me.”  
  
“Fine.” Geralt still looked pale, but his limp had already greatly improved. His gaze remained trained on Forle every step of the way. “No unnecessary killing. I’ll persuade them to go elsewhere.”  
  
“Ah, with that little Witcher charm, you mean?” Forle glanced down at Geralt’s hand, clenched around his sword. “A useful trick. You may let them live, but only because I’ve been _dying_ to see that in action.”  
  
As they carefully made their way through the castle, they passed by the quarters Jaskier and Geralt had shared during their time there. The door was open, allowing Jaskier to peer in. Empty. The desk, the bath tub, that one _dented_ , wooden wall - this was where they’d first been together.  
  
Somehow - despite the fact that Jaskier had been cursed then, had nearly strangled Geralt to death on that very bed - those times felt much simpler.  
  
As if in agreement, Geralt’s hand snaked into his. Smirked when he saw the particular places Jaskier’s eyes had been drawn to.  
  
“I suppose there’s no chance we could just barricade ourselves in there?” Jaskier whispered softly, mournfully, as he was tugged away from the doorway, back down the hallway. “You know, in the hopes that Forle decides to give up and fuck off?”  
  
“A nice idea. Don’t think he plans on fucking off anytime soon, though.” Geralt mused, watching the elf’s back.  
  
“It’s not polite to talk about someone within earshot, pet.”  
  
“About as polite as blackmail, I’d reckon,” the bard shot back, resentful at having been dragged away from one of the only slices of happiness they’d managed to find on their seemingly endless journey.  
  
Even still, fear of impending death had him hurrying nervously along. 

♜ ♖

After what felt like an eternity of aimless _trudging_ , they came upon the arch duke’s wing. Jaskier was shivering violently by then, and there was nothing his lover could offer him other than a warming arm about his shoulder - unless he wanted to siege the castle shirtless, which was a visually pleasing idea. Attractive in _theory_ , but not quite conventional, and a bit dangerous.  
  
There were two guards standing at attention on either side of large, gold double doors. Forle used his dagger’s reflection, held around the corner, to get a good look at them. They were discussing one of the castle’s maids and her...finer qualities.  
  
The language they used had Jaskier wanting to round the corner and smack them both over the head, but that impulse vanished when he felt a tickle in his nose.  
  
“Oh gods, _Geralt_ \- ” Jaskier whined in a hushed voice, urgently pawing at the other man’s sleeve. His hand flew up to his nose, trying to hold his breath - remembering that method was his remedy for _hiccups_ , not - “I’m going to - I have to _sneeze_ , Geralt - ”  
  
“Jaskier, for fuck’s sake - look up or something.” Such a noise would certainly alert the guards, and Geralt wasn’t sure what Forle might do if they turned hostile. The bard shook his head urgently, tilting his head back to gaze up at the ceiling, though that only made it worse. “ _Hold_ it, you fucking - ”  
  
Too late. Jaskier sneezed, and it wasn’t soft, or even slightly stifled - a painfully loud sound, made louder by his attempts to hold it in, that seemed to reverberate through the vestibule.  
  
“ _Oi_!” The telltale _shick_ of steel being drawn from its holster. “Who the fuck goes there? Who _sneezed_? Reveal yourself, now!”  
  
Before either Forle or Jaskier could react, Geralt rounded the corner and signed both men, sending them flying into the wall. One of them was knocked unconscious. As the other struggled to recover, the Witcher crouched before him, tilting his head to the side with his hand outstretched.  
  
“You don’t want to fight.” Geralt said, calm and placating. The soldier managed to grasp his weapon again, but his eyes were unable to look away from the palm hovering before his face. His hand shook as it tried wielding the blade. Geralt jerked his head towards the doors. “Arch duke in there?”  
  
A nod, followed by a monotonous voice. Almost like hypnotism.  
  
“Yes. In the throne room, attended by his wife. Waiting to pass judgement on the criminals.”  
  
“Good.” Geralt stood, bones popping as he stretched. The movement was too casual, while Jaskier - who had peeked out from around the corner - was observing the entire scene with bulging eyes. He’d seen this magic at work before, but it looked like Geralt’d had a bit of practice during their split. “Go. Now. Take your friend with you, and don’t return until morning.”  
  
The soldier quickly nodded again and hurried off, carting the other man along. Leaving the three of them alone in the large antechamber.  
  
“Well, what are you waiting for, _Geralt_?” Every time Forle said his name, Jaskier felt as if he’d been punched in the gut. He managed to make it sound like they were dear friends, and it was somehow more sickening than the way people usually tended to refer to the Witcher. “Open them. Let’s see what prize awaits us.”  
  
Geralt obeyed silently, grunting with effort. The hinges creaked ominously, revealing a very large throne room, lavishly decorated. The ceilings were at least a mile high, a single, massive chandelier lighting the chamber.  
  
The arch duke was seated on a wrought-iron throne, and he turned to them, expecting his men or some sort of report - when he caught sight of Geralt and Jaskier, and their elven captor, he called for the guards.  
  
His wife, seated beside him, screamed and quickly hid behind her own seat. Jaskier wanted to call to her, tell her everything would be okay - he wasn’t entirely sure that was true, had no idea what Geralt’s plan was -  
  
“What is the meaning of this? _Where_ are my men?” The arch duke stood, face bright red with effort. Jaskier didn’t remember him looking so feeble. Rotund - yes. Like he might expire at any moment - no. Pushing his sixties or seventies, riddled with gout and so terribly _fragile_. “What did you do with them?”  
  
“Good evening.” Forle ignored his questions and stepped forward, meriting another terrified shriek from the woman. His eyes landed on her, disinterested and detached. “Shut her up for me, will you? I do _so_ hate histrionics.”  
  
While the arch duke made to quiet his wife, Geralt surreptitiously grabbed Jaskier’s elbow to get his attention. Forle’s back was to them.  
  
“Jaskier.” His voice was low, watching Forle as he threatened and frightened the two nobles before him. “As soon as you recover, run.”  
  
“Ger - ”  
  
Before he could get the word out, Geralt had shoved him back. Raised his hand, sparing one apologetic look before forcefully, brutally signing him away.


	46. Chapter 46

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I am so sorry to expose you to my terrible, horrible rhymes again!!! 
> 
> At least you don’t also have to hear my actual singing, which is TRULY irredeemable! Just ask my pup, who gives me a look™ every time

**Two Days Prior**

Jaskier was seated on a tree stump in the small yard behind the inn, a few paces from the stables. Toiling away at his damaged lute, though each subsequent strum made by delicate fingers told him her chords had been royally fucked, beyond repair.  
  
Dejected, he sighed and played a discordant little tune.  
  
“ _The bard used his lute  
  
To clobber a brute  
  
And save an ungrateful wi-i-itch  
  
Now that poor lute  
  
Must be given the boot  
  
For she sounds like absolute shi - _oh, Geralt! Didn’t see you there. What, uh...what are you doing?”  
  
“Listening.” Geralt had been leaning against the wall of the stables, watching with a fond look on his face as Jaskier frustratedly plucked at the instrument. “Better not let Annika hear that one.”  
  
“Yes, well, she only had a small part. I think she’ll find certain verses of my upcoming ballad far more upsetting.” Jaskier huffed, carefully leaning the broken lute against his makeshift seat. “Thanks for trying to help fix the old girl up. Too bad my clobbering was a little too... _enthusiastic_.”  
  
He was glad to hear the bard speak of it so calmly. They’d stayed up late the night before trying to repair the damage, and Jaskier’d been completely inconsolable by the end of it. Thrown himself onto their bed. Claimed he would do anything in his power to avenge her. Started cursing the fates, the _gods_...  
  
“I’ve, um...got something for you. Not a lute.” Geralt approached him, offering a small bundle that had been hastily wrapped in canvas. Jaskier accepted it, looking somewhat surprised as he untied the string holding it closed. “Since your old one was lost to Forle’s hideout, I thought...”  
  
Jaskier set the gift down on his lap and pulled back the canvas, revealing a dagger. A slender hilt crafted entirely out of pearl, swirling with beautiful shades of gray and white. It was sheathed in leather that had been dyed a pretty, sky blue color.  
  
He slipped the blade out, balancing it on the open palm of his hand, eyes wide as they turned back up to Geralt.  
  
“ _Geralt_! Thank you - I - _where_ on earth did you get this? It’s almost too pretty, I...I don’t know what to say...” He carefully returned it to its holster, hands caressing soft, fine leather. “It is _very_ rare for me to be left speechless, Geralt. Almost never happens, as you well know, and I - what? What’s that face?”  
  
“You’re actually talking quite a bit.” Geralt supplied, chuckling when Jaskier’s cheeks went pink. “Won it a few days ago. Just took some time to adjust the sheath. It’ll attach discreetly to your belt, now.”  
  
“Oh, thank _fuck_ for that. Having a dagger in my boot always made me feel like I was one bad step away from losing a toe. Or several.” Jaskier shifted around a bit to get a better angle of the back of his pants, though he had trouble reaching.  
  
Geralt moved behind him then, gently taking the sheath and securing it to his belt. Jaskier went oddly quiet, cheeks flushed - a large, warm hand rested on the small of his back for a moment after the deed was done.  
  
The bard always wore high-waisted trousers, without fail, allowing the weapon to rest comfortably. It was hidden from plain sight, unless one looked hard enough to see the tip of its hilt. After recovering from his embarrassment - and _really_ , he thought, _all that from a fleeting touch?_ \- scooted over and tapped the space he’d made on the stump expectantly.  
  
“You know what this means, don’t you?”  
  
“What’s that?” Geralt sat beside him, watching as a barmaid drew cold water from a small pump near the inn’s back door. “Don’t let this go to your head, I still need to teach you how to use it. And _wield_ it. Realized that as soon as I caught you threatening Wade with an apple core.”  
  
“You _saw_ that? _Gods_...” Jaskier’s laugh was genuine, good-natured - he playfully shoved Geralt’s shoulder with his own. “Anyway, it _means_ I’m going to give you an excellent gift in return. And I am a very, _very_ skilled gift-giver. On occassion, at least - I once brought the countess strawberries and...well, she turned out to be deathly allergic. Almost had me incarcerated for attempted _murder_ \- ”  
  
Geralt snorted, shaking his head. “Of course she did. You were two melodramatic peas in a pod.”  
  
“Probably why it didn’t work out. Anyway, a slip-up like _that_ won’t happen again. Hopefully. You’re not allergic to strawberries, are you?” On second thought, he quickly raised his hands, silencing Geralt’s protests - though the man had none, was watching him with blatant amusement and a single raised brow. “No, no, _don’t_ tell me - where’s the fun in that? But mark my words, Geralt. One marvelous - nay, _spectacular_ gift is headed your way.”  
  
“Ugh.” A groan, as Jaskier bounced excitedly up and down, most likely imagining all sorts of _ridiculous_ possibilities. “What the fuck have I gotten myself into?” 

♜ ♖

**Present Day**

Jaskier yelped as the telekinetic force had him flying across the room, slamming heavily into the corner of the doorway. The chamber rumbled ominously at the impact.  
  
He’d never been on the business end of one of Geralt’s signs and it wasn’t something he ever wanted to experience again; it felt as if the bottom of his stomach had dropped out. Pain lanced up his back when it made contact with solid stone, both sensations melding into one dizzy, nauseous blur.  
  
Geralt had told him to run. He gripped the wall, standing on infuriatingly wobbly legs. Could very well have gathered himself and escaped but a grunt of pain had him looking back, just for a _second_ -  
  
The Witcher was clutching his thigh, blood seeping through the beige material that had been serving as a temporary binding.  
  
Forle had swiveled around, perhaps anticipating the betrayal - he sent a dagger hurtling towards Jaskier. It caught his sleeve, pinning him as the weapon embedded into the wall like a hot knife through butter. As he struggled to free himself, another sailed by and fixed itself into his pant leg.  
  
In any other situation, he’d stop and ask Forle a.) just how many weapons he had on his person - you know, on average, a ballpark estimate and b.) where the flying _fuck_ he kept them all. It seemed he had a literal arsenal up his sleeve.  
  
“You shouldn’t have done that, Geralt.” A heavy sigh, as if he were discussing something as casual as unfavorable weather. He took a step forward. “I wasn’t going to kill him if you behaved. At least, not right away. Pretty, pretty songbird. Deserves a gilded cage and a spectacular... _finish_. Not something as anticlimactic as this.”  
  
“ _Jaskier_!” Despite his harsh tone, his harsh words, there was panic and desperation in his voice as he watched the bard yank one of the knives out. “For once in your life, do as you’re _fucking_ told - ”  
  
“That is _unwarranted_ , Geralt!” Jaskier crouched, narrowly dodging another projectile, working at the one trapping his pant leg. The fabric ripped. “I’m bloody _trying_ , aren’t I - fucking hell, will you put that thing _down_ \- !”  
  
The elf had raised a hand towards Jaskier, had started murmuring an incantation but Geralt cursed and charged, tackling him to the ground, effectively interrupting the spell.  
  
Jaskier’s whole body had stiffened, a small glow blossoming under the fabric of his blouse, but at Geralt’s intervention both the awful feeling and the tiny beacon accompanying it stopped abruptly. He scampered away, but stopped again when he saw just how much blood was dripping from Geralt’s injury as he wrestled with the elf.  
  
“C-can’t we all just calm down and _talk_ about this?” He shot a glance at the arch duke, who was now crouched alongside his wife behind the massive throne. “You know, we’re defending _your_ lives. You could try and go for help, at least.”  
  
“Jaskier, if you don’t get the _fuck_ out - ” a punch cut the Witcher off and he growled, getting the upper hand, fingers closing around Forle’s slender throat.  
  
“I can’t just _leave_ you, Geralt, that poison is - ”  
  
Forle had managed to spirit himself out from under Geralt, putting some distance between them, aiming for Jaskier again, uttering the same words -  
  
The world seemed to slow for a moment as Jaskier stood, like a deer caught out by a hunter, staring with wild eyes at his attacker. Then, with jarring force and terrifying speed, that feeling hit him and the world sped back up.  
  
He clutched at his chest, watching as Geralt swiftly picked his sword back up, raised a hand to sign Forle away. Opened his mouth, but was unable to cry out; it felt as though he was being torn in two.  
  
Something started to emerge from the glow in his chest, something small and brilliant blue, something winged. He felt as if he were the last fading ember in a dying campfire, a candle being snuffed out, suffocated -  
  
The light in his eyes started going. Fading.  
  
Before Geralt could get close enough, an unknown force had Forle flying back. He crashed into a wall on the far side of the room, hand dropping to wrap around his waist as something cracked. He left a dent in the stone and once more, the room shook dangerously, dust breaking free from the ceiling and raining down upon them.  
  
A black-gloved hand grabbed Jaskier’s shoulder, turning him, and another slammed into his chest, hard, forcing the little glowy thing back in, back where it belonged.  
  
He gasped and heaved, maybe too dramatically - though he was pretty sure he’d just witnessed his own _spirit_ trying to leave his _body_ , which was enough to freak any reasonable person out - and gazed upon his noble rescuer.  
  
Yennefer stood in the doorway beside him, looking surprisingly _rumpled_ and worn - very unlike her. She winced as she removed her hand from his chest, a single bead of sweat trailing from her temple to her jaw, and he collapsed to his knees.  
  
“Yen!” His voice wavered uncertainly. It felt as if he hadn’t spoken in decades, as if he were shaking off the cobwebs after a long slumber. “Help Geralt, he’s been poisoned - the guards, the spears - their poison spears, they make you bleed and - bollocks, I can’t form a single _thought_ , can I? Did any of that make sense to you?”  
  
“Poison? On their _spears_? No such thing is used here.” Yen scowled at Forle as he struggled to extricate himself from the cracked wall. It seemed she was holding him there with magic. “Foul play, Jaskier. Surely you can smell it, oozing off this horrid creature?”  
  
He looked between Forle and Geralt when suddenly, the latter swayed on his feet before crumpling to the floor. Jaskier yelped and scurried over to him, slipping his arms under the Witcher’s shoulders and trying to drag him back towards Yen with still-shaking arms.  
  
“Ger _alt_ \- you need - to lay _off_ \- the _biscuits_.” Jaskier managed through gritted teeth as he lugged him back, though he knew the dead weight was better attributed to the fact that he was almost entirely made of muscle.  
  
Geralt had passed out and was therefore unable to apologize for weighing what Jaskier could only imagine was the equivalent of a gigantic boulder. Maybe a small mountain.  
  
“The jig is up, is it?” Forle’s shoulders shook as he laughed at some unknown joke. His voice was wet - bleeding from somewhere inside, red staining his lips and teeth. “Should’ve let him burn the wound closed, pet.”  
  
“You said you had to touch his blood to...” Jaskier paused, thinking back to the spear Geralt had thrown at Forle’s feet. He might’ve...the tip of it _had_ been used to injure Geralt several times, after all. Would’ve been coated in the stuff. If Forle had managed to get his grimy paw on it - that would mean the manipulative shit purposely kept the Witcher weak, kept him _malleable_. “Oh, you lying sack of - ”  
  
“Try and stop the bleeding, Jaskier. His pulse is thready.” Yennefer raised one hand towards Forle, closing it into a fist, which had his body straightening up, pressing further into the wall. Something else cracked, though whether it was stone or a bone, Jaskier didn’t know. “I’ll deal with this pest.”  
  
The bard did as he was told, pressing one hand into Geralt’s thigh while tearing off the sleeve of his shirt with the other. So much blood. Skin, white as a sheet. He cursed his own stupidity, though thankfully the disruption had caused Forle to stop whatever he’d been doing to Geralt behind the scenes. Now, to tie it off as tightly as possible and get the hell out of spelling range.  
  
Yennefer stepped forward, heels clicking on the smooth, marble floor. Positioning herself so that she was in front of Jaskier and Geralt, but still a safe distance away from her trapped prey.  
  
“You’ve been a thorn in my side for quite some time now.” Her voice was calm, back to her impeccably collected self after shaking off whatever saving Jaskier had done to her. “Rampaging through the city like a mad dog, pissing and shitting wherever you please. No longer.”  
  
“Sorry - _who_ are you, again?” Forle sneered back, spitting a wad of blood on the ground. His arms and legs were still pinned to the wall by an invisible force. “Ah, right. The castle’s resident sorceress. The arch duke doesn’t respect you, doesn’t even listen to the wisdom you offer him. Once he becomes king, he’ll cast you out. Forsake all magic, as powerless humans in powerful positions tend to do.”  
  
That didn’t seem to phase her one bit. She hardly glanced at the arch duke, who poked his head up long enough to dispute Forle’s claims - ducking down when it drew the elf’s attention back to him.  
  
“That’s precisely why I’m here.” Yen flicked her wrist, had Forle’s head snapping back towards her, slamming into the wall. Above them, the chandelier clinked and trembled. The sound only had Forle’s smile widening. “I just don’t understand why _you_ are. How stupid can you be, coming into my domain - hurting _my_ people?”  
  
At being called ‘stupid,’ Forle’s eyes narrowed. With seemingly no effort at all, he blinked out of Yen’s magical grip, collapsing to the floor a few paces away.  
  
“ _I’m_ stupid? You’re the one who thinks you can change things. That’s the problem with your Brotherhood. History is a wheel - ”  
  
Forle nimbly dodged as she tossed another crushing blow at him. It slammed into the wall - encouraged, his grin returned. He danced around her, though he was limping terribly, his magic occasionally sputtering and sending him rocketing to the ground. It only served to make his movements less predictable, though. She didn’t vocally respond to his taunts, content with swatting him to the ground and silencing him for good.  
  
“ - yet you fret over all the minuscule details, all the meaningless politics, thinking you have control. Not realizing those ‘changes’ are just repeats of last century’s mistakes. Not noticing as the world crumbles around you - ”  
  
Yennefer finally caught him with a particularly brutal strike. Jaskier had managed to bind the wound and get Geralt’s arm over his shoulder - freezing when he felt the whole chamber shake with the force of the turbulent battle occurring within. Geralt groaned and shifted in his grip, though the relief he felt at those blessed signs of life was fleeting.  
  
“Uh, Yennefer? I don’t mean to interrupt, but maybe we should lay off the - ”  
  
Too late. One crack in the wall kept going, up and up, reaching the chandelier. Everything and everyone stopped for one breathless moment. Forle had crumpled to the ground, though he raised his head and smirked at the loud clattering as the chains holding the ornament gave. Not all the way, only sending it plummeting a few feet. More fractures spiderwebbed out from where it had been fixed in the ceiling.  
  
Standing unevenly on an injured leg, Forle directed a deep, flourishing bow towards Yen, speaking a few words in Elder.  
  
The chandelier fell, bringing everything down with it. The chamber collapsed upon its inhabitants, an avalanche of stone and massive chunks of rock and debris.


	47. Chapter 47

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! Apologies for any grammatical errors/slow replies to comments, I spirited my pup and I out of the city to a friend at ze beach, so these chaps are posted from my phone hehe....but I hope this update finds you all well and safe!!!!

Darkness. It was pitch black and cold.  
  
_It hurts_ , Jaskier’s brain supplied, before he’d even opened his eyes. Something sticky dripped down his arm, pooled in his cupped hand. Fingers released, the sound of a small puddle plopping all at once to the ground. Nearby, debris crunched underfoot. One step. _It hurts, it hurtshurtshu -_  
  
His eyes flickered open, finding more blackness, shadows swirling in deep pools, interspersed with scant beams of faraway moonlight.  
  
Another crunch of debris, closer now. Another step.  
  
He struggled to get to his feet, realizing there was a warm body on top of his. His mind was elsewhere, trying to piece together a baffling puzzle, and he had no idea who it could be but something told him to be gentle when he nudged them off.  
  
With that dealt with, he glanced down at his right arm, vaguely making out a mass of darkness trailing along the underside of his forearm. He prodded around and felt a jagged wound. Not from a blade. The feel of it made him nauseous. There was something else, a dull throbbing and that same sticky wetness gluing his shirt to his side.  
  
There were many rocks around him, he realized. They shifted under his weight. They were sharp. One of them had done the damage to his arm, certainly. There was an awful, piercing ringing in his ears. Had he had too much to drink and fallen...into a hole somewhere? Why was everything so fuzzy? When did...  
  
_Geralt_ , he suddenly remembered. A flash of orange-y, crackling energy from an impromptu barrier. Where was he? And Yen...the whole chamber had collapsed on top of them.  
  
And the floor had opened up beneath them, giving out under the weight of it all. The first barriers Yen and Geralt had created couldn’t withstand that much force - didn’t last long enough to fully protect them as they hurtled down into the chamber below.  
  
Blearily, Jaskier got to his knees. His hand found the body that had been on top of him and its solidity and warmth had him realizing it was Geralt. It was so fucking dark, but the flame of one candle from the chandelier somehow managed to survive the torrent and it occasionally bounced off the steel of Geralt’s sword.  
  
Jaskier grabbed it, holding it up to Geralt’s face. Pale. Breath shallow. He was _too_ pale. A rock had caught him in the forehead, leaving a deep cut. Residual effects from blood loss did the rest, leaving him vulnerable as his body worked overtime to heal. It was too dark to see what other damage lurked beneath torn black clothes.  
  
In the distance, there was a groan. He remembered the arch duke and his wife had been caught along with them. Yen had portaled to them, but there wasn’t enough time to portal them out. That was when she threw up the barrier.  
  
Forle, too. Forle had provided the straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak. Caused the gigantic fixture in the ceiling to fall. Maybe he had used the distraction to escape...then what had been the point of all this?  
  
“Geralt.” Jaskier nudged the man insistently, frowning at how weak his own voice sounded. He knew the other man wasn’t dead, but he certainly didn’t look like he had long. “Geralt, wake up. _Please_. Say _something_ \- ”  
  
Another crunch, not so far away. He finally understood what that sound meant, now that he’d remembered the traumatic blast that had sent them careening down into this dark, dank room. Who the hell was casually walking about after such destruction? Who had the strength? He barely had control over his own limbs.  
  
He flashed the candle around, only finding more rubble. Impossibly large chunks of stone, would have crushed anyone beneath them with ease.  
  
“Yen?” The dust was still settling, and he coughed a couple times to get it out of his lungs. That pulled at his side, the skin feeling tight and hot. He’d need to check that out. His severe disorientation and general wooziness couldn’t simply be attributed to a small, bleeding cut on his arm. “Yennefer, is that you? Geralt is...”  
  
Another cough came in response to his, and he heard the sound of rocks being moved around a few paces away. He was irritated that whoever it was refused to answer him.  
  
Suddenly, light flooded the cavernous room. Magical light, a small beacon tinging everything in hues of purple and blue.  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened and he positioned his body until he was obscuring Geralt entirely from view. He reached for the other man’s sword, grabbing the hilt and brandishing it with a shaking hand.  
  
It was Forle. He was pulling someone out of the wreck, dragging them. It elicited another groan from whoever he’d found.  
  
The bubble of light, that had fixed itself to a large chunk of stone, illuminated him as he let the body fall limply at his feet and drew a dagger.  
  
When he felt Jaskier’s horrified gaze, he looked up.  
  
“Go back to sleep, pet. I’ll wake you when it’s time to go.”  
  
Jaskier finally was able to get to his feet, squinting at the body before Forle. Trying to see who it was, if it was Yen, or...  
  
Too round to be Yen. Silver hair, ruddy cheeks. Magnificent robes. The arch duke.  
  
“N-no, I can’t let you...” Jaskier winced, clutching his side for the first time. Something small and hard was jutting out of it, the skin around ragged and torn. More nausea came over him at the discovery, but he swallowed it back. “I can’t let you kill him. It’s not right. He’s done nothing to you.”  
  
Forle cocked his head to the side curiously. At least his attention had been drawn away, for a little bit.  
  
“Is that so? Are you very sure?” He eyed the blade in Jaskier’s hand with amusement. “And what, pray tell, are you planning on doing with that? You’re not even holding it properly, sweet thing.”  
  
Jaskier glanced uncertainly down at the weapon, trying to adjust his grip. It fell in the process, with a louder clatter, and he cursed. Quickly abandoned the candle and picked it back up, using both hands this time.  
  
Forle was right; it was far heavier than he expected. He couldn’t imagine swinging the thing without knocking himself off-balance. How Geralt managed to do it, to make it look so easy and effortless, was beyond him.  
  
“I’ll stop you.” He hated that it sounded more like a question than a statement. “Wh-what could he have possibly done to deserve a death like this?”  
  
“Not him, necessarily. His ancestors.” Forle sighed, taking a step towards Jaskier. Gesturing towards his side. “You’re terribly injured. Too weak to fight back. I guess there’s no harm in showing you.”  
  
“Showing me _what_? Really, I am _very_ content with not seeing whatever you have - ” Jaskier backed away a couple steps. Tripped over a rock, fell unceremoniously on his arse. The impact had pain shooting up his side and he valiantly bit back a scream.  
  
Forle continued walking towards him, slowly. He was limping. Still armed with that scary-looking dagger. “My first kill, of course.”  
  
“No, nononono - ” Jaskier scrambled back further, Geralt’s sword now clutched in one hand as the other dragged him back. He heard a sound behind him, glanced back to see Geralt shifting ever-so-slightly, though his eyes had yet to open. Suddenly, he realized he didn’t want Geralt to come to right now. Not like this. Not with Forle... “Geralt, forget what I said earlier, say nothing and don’t wake - ”  
  
Forle was upon him. He’d pocketed the dagger. With lightning speed, he grabbed Jaskier’s chin and forced the bard to look upon him, meriting another small whimper.  
  
“You must know by now that I like when you struggle, pet.” Forle licked his lips, before releasing Jaskier’s chin and bringing two fingers to his clammy forehead. “Enjoy the show.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes fluttered back in his head, though he didn’t fall and Forle’s fingers remained, their tips thrumming with soft, subtle magic.  
  
Images found their way into his head, _forced_ their way in and it was a violating feeling that had him crying out. At some point, his free hand had wrapped around Forle’s wrist, using it as an outlet for his pain.  
  
The things he saw were like a dream within a dream within a dream, distant and foggy, interlaced with occasional, brutal clarity. The real world - the chamber they’d fallen into, the fear and other emotions he’d felt - faded slowly until gone to him completely. 

_A sunny day. A cottage in the forest, no other houses in sight. Small, elven children playing outside. Four of them, almost unbearably precious - the eldest was no more than five or six years old. They looked like they came from completely different families; varying hair colors, hair textures. Varying heights and face shapes. They were chasing chickens around, tossing a ball.  
  
Another elf, a slender, smallish adult with light brown hair that had been pulled back in a short ponytail. His back was turned, hands deep in the dirt. He was toiling away at a small garden to the left of the house, the sun bearing down on him. Planting seeds, pulling weeds, gathering fresh tomatoes and harvesting wheat.  
  
Forle - Jaskier had to assume he was seeing things through Forle’s eyes, though he couldn’t make out any specific words, had been thrust into this with very little warning - watched from the sidelines for a long while before calling out to him.  
  
The brunette turned, sweat beading on his forehead. And okay, it was _quite_ the resemblance, down to his mannerisms and general goofiness. A broad grin lit up his face and he quickly stood, abandoning his tools and rushing excitedly over. They shared a long, passionate kiss before something bumped into Forle’s back, nearly sending him toppling over. The other elf, presumably his partner, steadied him with strong hands.  
  
Turning and looking down, seeing a tiny girl with a large, gap-toothed smile that took up half her face. The children looked healthy and well cared for, though the cottage, their clothes - everything was quaint. Simple. No frills.  
  
The girl peered curiously at what was in Forle’s hand, asking something. He chuckled and glanced down at the young buck he’d come back with - judging by the arrow protruding from its chest, he’d caught it while hunting.  
  
Something he said made her laugh and she called to the other kids. It took all of their strength to support the weight of the buck and bring it into the house. _

_That scene quickly faded, gave way to another. It was nighttime. Forle was livid, shouting at his partner, slamming something down on the table. A pair of bloodied shears.  
  
He pointed angrily to the corner of the living space, at the same young girl from before. Half of her hair was cut shorter than the rest. She was crying, clutching the tip of her ear. Blood stained her tiny fingers.  
  
His partner shook his head, saying something back - he looked different. The freckles on his face stood out as his skin was now much paler, his expression off. Not nearly as pleasant as before. A little manic.  
  
The heated exchange continued for awhile longer before his lover stalked off, leaving Forle to deal with the sobbing child. He sat her down in front of a mirror, speaking soothing words, bandaging up her ear. The damage wasn’t terrible. It looked to be an accident.  
  
He cleaned the scissors after she’d calmed down, and started finishing her haircut. Occasionally, he’d glanced up at the mirror to check out his handiwork, allowing Jaskier fleeting glances of this strange, younger Forle.  
  
Still just as handsome, but without any of the malice and wickedness that currently tainted his otherwise attractive face. His smile came easier, and wasn’t nearly as cruel. It was uncomfortable for Jaskier to see, so he tried focusing on the child instead.  
  
She was laughing and beaming again by the end of the haircut. Forle asked her gently probing questions, probably about what happened, but she only shrugged. Too young to understand what he was asking, so eventually, he relented. _

_The next scene had Forle approaching the cottage at night, finding it on fire. Massive flames within, exploding violently out of windows. His partner was on his knees outside, watching, though his back was turned and Jaskier couldn’t see the look on his face.  
  
Forle dropped whatever prey he’d caught that day and shouted something, a question, that got no response. He ran to the small building and tried opening the door but the handle was burning hot, the iron melted shut. He tried breaking in, flinging his entire body against it, though it would not give. Something was blocking it from the inside.  
  
His partner still hadn’t moved. Forle grabbed him, shook him, repeated the same question, but the other elf’s face was blank, blue eyes wide and unresponsive. He was muttering something, the same thing over and over again.  
  
Forle hissed and ran around back, smashing a window with his elbow and hopping in. The stairway was blocked off by two large, flaming beams of wood. He tried getting through but the smoke eventually overwhelmed him, had him crumpling to the ground, heaving and gasping for air. He was still trying desperately, urgently to get upstairs, to get to _something_ when he passed out, and everything went black. _

_When he came to again it was morning. He looked up and saw his partner, smiling down at him, lovingly stroking his hair. He was covered in ashes and smoke. They were at the center of the living room - more specifically, its smoldering remains.  
  
The entire house had burned down. The children were nowhere in sight. The early sun came through, illuminating charred furniture. Everything had been destroyed.  
  
Forle shot out of his partner’s lap, grabbing his collar, shaking him. Dialogue was clear now, this being the most cohesive scene yet.  
  
“ _Sindrel_! The children, where are they?” He shook him again, violently. His voice cracked. He sounded very different from the Forle that Jaskier had come to know. “What did you _do_? Where...did you leave them in the city, with your sister? Were they in...” He couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought, the words like bile in the back of his throat.  
  
The other elf, Sindrel, only shook his head and said something. The same thing he’d been repeatedly muttering under his breath, that Jaskier previously couldn’t make out. There was an eerily blissful smile plastered to his charcoal-covered face.  
  
“They’re free. The humans can’t hurt them, now. Don’t you see? It was only a matter of time, like you said. I _freed_ them, Fo - ” Forle slapped him. Hard. Sindrel hardly flinched, licking away the blood that bubbled from where a tooth had caught his lip. “You _wanted_ this. _You_ told me the humans would come back for us. Said there was no way we’d ever truly be free of them. Why aren’t you happy? They’re _free_ \- ”  
  
“Stop saying that.”  
  
“They felt no pain. They’re in a better - ”  
  
“Stop.” Forle’s voice was growing colder, more distant by the second. “ _Stop_ it.”  
  
Sindrel reached for him, taking his hand. Another hand brushed his cheek. Crystal clear blue eyes found his and kept him there, transfixed.  
  
“I did this for them. For us. For _you_.”  
  
Forle was silent for a long time.  
  
“It’s okay, pet.” With a deep sigh, Forle drew him in for a kiss. He tasted like ash. The next thing Jaskier knew, his hands were wrapped about Sindrel’s throat. “I understand.”  
  
“For - ”  
  
Tightening his hold, silencing any further protests. Any further mentions of _freedom_. Sindrel writhed, making horrible sounds, but Forle was too strong and violently shoved him down into the burnt-up floor, straddling him, gripping _harder_. Blood burbled forth from plump, pink lips, wild eyes desperately searching his face, confused, betrayed, and he found he liked the way the life slowly left them - _

Forle released Jaskier, watching as he instinctively curled in on himself, arms wrapping about his waist, chest heaving.  
  
“Why - does _everyone_ \- insist - on making me relive their _worst_ memories? You, Annika...” Jaskier panted, trying to steady himself. There were tears in his eyes and he tried blinking them away, but more came, frustratingly persistent. “What the fuck was that, anyway? You _killed_ \- ”  
  
“He’d gone mad.” Forle said sharply, cutting him off. “Slowly. I didn’t realize the extent of it in time, attributed it to trauma. We’d both seen the majority of our people, our friends and family, exterminated.”  
  
Jaskier had recovered slightly, though the taste of ash lingered on his tongue. While it felt like he’d relived a lifetime of memories, it didn’t seem as though much time had passed at all. “Bloody _hell_. Were those your children?”  
  
The elf drew his dagger once again. He was still incredibly close. “They were our children, but not by blood. We managed to get them out when the humans razed our village. They were infants when we took them from burning buildings, brought them into our home.”  
  
“And he...”  
  
“From what I can gather, Sindrel put them to sleep as he usually did before setting fire to the house.”  
  
“That’s - that’s _horrible_! Why on earth did you show me this?”  
  
Somehow, Jaskier knew he didn’t want the answer. He cursed himself for asking.  
  
“I killed him for what he did. I’ll kill the arch duke for what his great-grandfather did. Consider me an angel of justice. Though, I’ve found I do quite enjoy the act more than the justification.” Forle sighed, leaning in closer, the dagger-wielding hand brushing Jaskier’s cheek. He flinched at the contact. “You know, killing the man I loved, the man I’d raised children with, was somehow both the highest and lowest point I’ve ever reached. Never felt that way since. Until _recently_.”  
  
The bard swallowed hard, eyes subconsciously darting down to locate Geralt’s sword. It had fallen from his hand. Forle had kicked it away at some point. Fuck. “Yeah? Wh-when was that? I...I don’t suppose you were hugging a puppy, or something? And - and it made you realize you’d prefer to leave behind this life of crime?”  
  
Geralt was still just inches away, behind him. His arm shifted imperceptibly, moving against Jaskier’s back as he struggled to free himself from the throes of unconsciousness.  
  
It brushed against something, reminded Jaskier of what was hidden there. Reminded him he wasn’t entirely helpless, even as Forle leaned closer still.  
  
“When I met you. When we kissed.” His breath ghosted down Jaskier’s neck. “Here’s the plan, pet.” Knowing the origins of the nickname made it exponentially worse. “The arch duke and his wife will die first. Your paramour second. That powerful sorceress, the one caught in the rubble, will go next. You, I think I’ll take as a souvenir. Chase that high. So, before we begin...may I?”  
  
He had to do something. This was on him. Everyone else was injured or trapped. Geralt was alive, and his life was in Jaskier’s hands. If he woke up before the bard did anything, in his weakened state, Forle would certainly kill him.  
  
Breathlessly, he replied, “yes.”  
  
Their lips met and Jaskier, forcing himself to look past the pain and fear, surreptitiously slid out the dagger hidden in his belt. Blessing his dexterous fingers as he did. His other hand feigned drawing Forle in closer, prolonging the kiss despite how wrong it felt to be this way with anyone other than Geralt.  
  
The elf, encouraged, deepened the kiss. Rough. Careless of Jaskier’s injuries, jostling them in a way that made him feel sick. The pommel of the blade in his hand pressed into Jaskier’s side, eliciting a small, pained noise that only spurred Forle on further.  
  
Behind them, Geralt’s eyes flickered open, but neither noticed. Both too caught up in what they were doing - though for different reasons, of course.  
  
With a cringe and a silent apology, Jaskier released a shaky breath into Forle’s mouth before driving the dagger into his back.


	48. Chapter 48

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eep! I’m sorry, I meant to post this last night but got roped into an absurd, ENTIRELY too-long happy hour zoom with my extended family and had one too many martinis oof
> 
> Also, I’d say there are about 2-3 more chapters left in this arc! After that, there’s going to be one last big arc, though it will be more Geraskier-centric and....pretty bonkers, but that’s nothing new :P

Geralt’s first thought when he woke was of Jaskier. Unlike the bard, he came to with instant clarity. Remembered exactly what had happened. He hadn’t been able to mitigate all of the damage, despite his best efforts.  
  
After his first barrier was destroyed, he managed to grab hold of Jaskier as the floor gave out beneath them. Tried to use his body as a shield, protect him from the brunt of it.  
  
The first sensation he felt upon waking up, aside from dull, throbbing pain, was relief. Free from that infuriating sluggishness he’d been suffering from for the last several hours. He’d sustained a lot of damage, but being out (even for a short time) - and not having a sneaky fucking elf slowly bleeding him like a stuck pig - had allowed his body to focus on and heal the most life-threatening of his injuries. Replenished some much-needed strength and stamina.  
  
All of that combined had him waking up ready to face whatever came next. Forle wouldn’t give them any time to breathe, wouldn’t snatch this golden opportunity as a means to escape. If there was anything of himself that he saw in the wicked elf, it was obstinance.  
  
Well, ready to face anything other than the scene he was greeted with. His eyes fluttered open to find Jaskier kissing Forle. One slender hand, bearing a weapon, roamed the bard’s body with barely an ounce of tenderness. The sight of it, combined with the lingering effects of a concussion, sent a wave of nausea crashing over him.  
  
He hardly had time to process the scene, however. Jaskier, whose hand had been creeping up slowly, stealthily, squeezed his eyes shut and plunged something into the elf’s back with a wet _squelch_ and a tearing sound. When Forle hunched over in reaction, Geralt saw it was the dagger he’d given Jaskier. Faint, bluish light danced off its pearly hilt.  
  
“ _Shit_! Gods, that’s disgusting! I - I didn’t - ” Jaskier instantly released the weapon, hands shaking terribly. Wide, terrified eyes watched, awestruck, as Forle hissed and reared back like a snake ready to strike. “How are you still - oi!”  
  
Geralt reacted just as fast, grabbing Jaskier by his collar and yanking him away, Forle’s dagger missing his throat by an inch.  
  
“Geralt - _ah_!” Jaskier’s excitement died as Forle struck again, but Geralt was ready for it and caught the elf’s wrist in his hand. “ _Geralt_!”  
  
He had ducked to avoid the blow, scrambling out from under both of their arms as they struggled against each other. Not good. Geralt growled and tried disarming the elf but Forle, though critically wounded, was still quite an even match for him.  
  
Push and pull, though Geralt had the advantage of two working hands and used the one not wrapped vice-like about Forle’s dagger-wielding wrist to punch him square in the jaw. Forle retaliated with a grin and a fierce, bone-cracking kick to Geralt’s chest -  
  
Stumbling, back to full-blown panicking, Jaskier looked through the rubble for _something_ to end this once and for all. His dagger was still protruding from Forle’s back, rivulets of blood staining soft leather.  
  
Geralt’s sword, just a foot away. Close. Forle wasn’t using his powers, must have been too weak to flit about like a bloody mosquito. There was no telling what he was still capable of, though, and Jaskier knew he had to act fast.  
  
He picked up the sword, and just as Forle managed to free his wrist, Jaskier came up behind him. Grabbed a handful of his hair with one hand, tilting his head back and pressing the sharp side of the blade to Forle’s throat.  
  
The fighting immediately came to a shuddering halt. Geralt, eyes bright and fiery, looked to Jaskier and his demeanor instantly softened. Got to his feet, taking the scene in. Looking more concerned than pleased that Jaskier had been the one to gain the upper hand.  
  
Speaking of, Jaskier’s hand - the one holding the weapon - was trembling violently. He’d accidentally nicked Forle’s neck in the fray. A single, watery trickle of pinkish blood mingled with the layer of sweat that coated the elf’s tan skin, left a sheen on every visible inch of it.  
  
Forle remained on his knees, though he craned his head back a bit to leer at the bard. It caused the sword to dig into the small cut, the trickle turning into a stream. “You won’t kill me, pet - you don’t have it in you. Like Sindrel. Too pure and delicate. Killing will take that from you, taint you. Just as it did to him.”  
  
Geralt furrowed his brow. “Who the fuck is Sindrel?”  
  
“Oh, yikes. Long story. I’ll, uh...fill you in. Later.” Jaskier’s voice shook. Mildly freaked out that Forle was somewhat leaning into the blade, as if testing him. On the other hand, some small, dark part of him felt compelled to truly finish things. Perhaps this was the only way. “If you move another muscle, Forle, I _will_ do it. And - and keep your misguided sentiments of purity and...ugh, _delicacy_ to yourself. Do you realize how creepy you sound?”  
  
Forle dropped his dagger, bringing the hand up to Geralt’s sword. Applying more pressure. “Do it, then. My last gift to you will be the torment you feel upon taking a life. You’ll never recover from it, it will eat at you until - ”  
  
“Stop it!” Jaskier instinctively jerked the blade, the cut deepening even further. His panic intensified at the sight of all that blood. “Stop _touching_ it, I’m - I - ”  
  
“Calm down.” Geralt approached Jaskier, a careful look on his face. It hurt to know that while he’d been unconscious, the bard had felt cornered enough to resort to such violence. He was shaking like a leaf in the wind, mentally preparing himself for... “You’re not a killer, Jaskier. Just - give me the sword. I’m sorry, I left you to deal with this on your own. But I’m here now.”  
  
“No! This is _my_...he’s - he’s caused _so_ much pain.” The bard struggled to swallow through the lump forming in his throat. He was pale, perhaps a bit delirious from too much fear. And, unbeknownst to Geralt, quite a bit of blood loss. “To us, to others...you didn’t see what I saw, he went in my head and _made_ me see. It was horrible. He can’t be allowed to - ”  
  
“You know that’s not our decision to make. I love you, Jaskier. You need to trust me and let me take it from here.”  
  
Jaskier’s wild eyes searched Geralt’s for a long moment before he released a shaky breath, minutely loosening his grip. It seemed Forle’s wounds had started to catch up with him. His eyes fluttered dangerously and he sagged a bit against Jaskier’s legs.  
  
If he ended up succumbing to his wounds, so be it. His life wasn’t what the Witcher was protecting. He was protecting Jaskier, from doing something so incredibly against his own values and beliefs that it might irrevocably change him.  
  
Forle’s views were sick and twisted, but he was right about one thing. The temporary release of revenge would shortly give way to soul-crushing, mind-altering guilt and regret. Geralt had seen lesser men than Jaskier fall victim to it several times over.  
  
Not his bard. Thankfully, he’d broken through to him in time. Shaken him out of whatever panicked frenzy Forle had put him in by getting into his head, both literally and figuratively.  
  
“How boring.” Forle slurred, though he seemed to be accessing the last remnants of his strength just to speak. “Thought you were a romantic, Jaskier. You’re missing out on some very poetic justice by sparing me.”  
  
”Sod off.” Jaskier muttered back, sparing a small, affectionate glance at Geralt, who had closed the space between them. Rested one hand on the bard’s lower back, easing the hilt of the blade away with his other - though he was cautious, not allowing Forle an inch in case he got any ideas. “I love you, too. Just, um...in case we weren’t clear on that.”  
  
A smirk. “I know. Are you injured anywhere? We have to search for survivors, but I don’t want to let him out of my sight until the guards take him into custody. I hear them coming.” Geralt surveyed the rubble, looking for any signs of life. “Have you seen Yen? Where - Jaskier? Are you... _fuck_!”  
  
Jaskier, having been relieved of his charge, was suddenly careening off to the side. Geralt grabbed him just in time with his free hand, trying to steady him on his feet. Forle cackled, though it dissolved into wet, hacking coughs. Thankfully, his deteriorating condition made him a relatively docile prisoner.  
  
The chamber had incredibly low visibility, the only source of light being some moonlight and a distant, glowing ball of energy. But now that he had one blessed moment to gather his thoughts, Geralt could distinctly make out a large splotch of darkness coloring the side of the bard’s blouse.  
  
“Ah, I sh-should have mentioned.” Jaskier followed Geralt’s gaze to the wound, the color going from his face. He’d managed to forget about it, any pain temporarily numbed by the adrenaline coursing through his veins. “Think I _might_ have been impaled by a rock during our fall. But I don’t - I don’t _feel_ all that terrible? That’s a good sign, right? Really, it’s not...oh, look at your _face_ , Geralt! It’s not a good sign at _all_ , is it?”  
  
“No, Jaskier. You’re in shock.” Geralt huffed and, despite his previous statements, quickly removed the blade from Forle’s throat and bashed him over the head with its hilt. And yes, maybe it _was_ a little gratifying to cut off that horrible, manic laughter and watch as their tormentor crumpled bonelessly to the floor. “Damn it. Let me look at - ”  
  
Unfortunately, the guards arrived quite a bit sooner than expected. Before he could assess the extent of the damage, Geralt heard their metal boots thundering towards the collapsed chamber. They heaved several large rocks out of the doorway, while a few others poked their heads down from what remained of the throne room.  
  
Countless armed soldiers filed into the confined space, though where he expected aid, Geralt found spears being shoved in his face.  
  
“What is this?” Geralt made to step forward, keeping Jaskier securely at his side, but the guards only tensed as though he were readying an assault. “Are you fucking with me right now? We nearly died trying to save your - ”  
  
“ _Halt_! Don’t make any sudden moves!” One armored man approached them, brandishing his weapon as Jaskier stumbled a bit where he stood, burbling about the indecency of it all. He turned to his men. “Search the area for the arch duke and his wife. Take all three criminals into custody.”  
  
“ _Three_? What are you on about - ” Jaskier was cut off as a soldier pulled him from Geralt. He teetered a bit, having to lean against the stranger, scowling when he was met with a look of disgust. “Are you out of your _minds_? D-do you seriously still plan on taking us in after we _saved_ \- ”  
  
The soldier started binding Jaskier with rope. Instinctively, he struggled and thrashed around until a swift jab to the stomach had him crying out, doubling over.  
  
“Stop!” Geralt snarled, jerking against the men that had pulled him from his lover, were now securing his hands behind his back. “He’s injured, you need to take him to a healer - ”  
  
“Silence, Witcher.” It was the first soldier who had spoken. He nodded to the men who had paused upon noticing Jaskier’s condition. “Criminals don’t get that luxury. You’ll be put up in our city’s jail until judgement is passed. There’s an infirmary there, but only for life-threatening cases.”  
  
“ _Fuck_ that. My - he needs medical treatment - ”  
  
Someone punched him in the face. He hissed and shook it off, but found he could do nothing but watch as Jaskier was practically dragged out of the room. The bard’s knees were too wobbly to support his own weight.  
  
They were both too weak to put up much of a fight, actually. Geralt’s sword had been manhandled from him and he was surprised to find how little strength the night’s events had left him with. He was kept behind, witnessing as they secured Forle’s unconscious body and carted him out behind Jaskier.  
  
“Captain! I found the arch duke!” A soldier behind them, easily locating the body Forle had dragged out and prepared to slaughter. “He’s badly injured, we need to get him to the surgeon!”  
  
“Over here - I’ve got the arch duke’s wife! His advisor as well, the sorceress.” That was from the far left, had Geralt’s ears perking. The man took his sweet ass time describing her condition, which only added to his stress and irritation. “Out cold but breathing, both of them!”  
  
Momentary relief. If Yen had...  
  
No time to dwell on it. Men rushed about with dizzying speed and urgency. The one shouting orders turned to Geralt before he was bodily dragged away.  
  
“This doesn’t look good, Witcher. Attempted assassination of the arch duke and his wife. Destruction of his prestigious throne room. Sending the city into chaos by instigating a street war - countless innocent men lost their lives this night.” He shook his head, eyes narrowed to slits, barely visible through the visor of his helm. “A death sentence is a mercy for monsters like you. Though I have to say, I can’t wait to watch the lot of you hang once and for all.”


	49. Chapter 49

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Posting this early because I’m like four matcha lattes deep and practically climbing the walls! I don’t know who allowed me near a milk frother and a bag of powdered caffeine but it was a ♫mista-a-ake ♫
> 
> I love the idea of Jaskier and Geralt being in medieval jail together lmao. Very inspired by that (game spoilers??) blood & wine ending where Dandelion springs Geralt out of prison, hehe. What a cutie!

The jail was surprisingly civil and almost _nice_ , all things considered. While Jaskier had been spit on and cursed at by the arch duke’s guards on the way, the prison’s armed staff - whose care he was transferred to after a bit more measured shit-talking - was a great deal less aggressive.  
  
And the place itself wasn’t half bad. Situated on the outskirts of the vast castle grounds, with a large courtyard (the gallows standing ominously at the center weren’t as nice, though), high walls, and shared cells. Prisoners would have been roaming freely, if it weren’t bordering on three in the morning. As a result, it was empty and peaceful, and all of the place’s inhabitants were locked away for the night.  
  
“I _must_ be losing the last of my marbles because I’m finding this place to be,” Jaskier squinted around the large, open space, trying to find the right word. The guard escorting him to his cell responded with an irritated scowl as he spoke. “dare I say, _not_ terrible? Could be the blood loss, though. Or the shock. Or the half-bottle of wine I ingested before all of...well, this. I have to ask myself, where have I gone wrong in the last few weeks to be considering a _prison_ \- ”  
  
“Will you shut up? What makes you think I give a single shit about anything you have to say, inmate?” The guard shook her head, trailing behind him and prodding him along. “Why do I always get the bloody talkers?”  
  
“Oh, that’s - are the ‘ _talkers_ ’ really less favorable than the murderers and debaucher...ers?”  
  
“Your crimes classify you as both.”  
  
“I guess that’s fair. No, not really. None of this is fair. But I can’t go blaming _you_ for this city’s fucked idea of justice, can I?”  
  
“I am ordering you to _shut_ the fuck up.”  
  
“Yeah, I hear what you’re saying.” He clearly didn’t. “Speaking of blood loss, I don’t suppose you might be able to offer some assistance?” Jaskier was speaking a lot, mostly because he was worried for Geralt. The Witcher had been kept behind for whatever reason, and he hadn’t seen him since. “Maybe a bandage? Sutures? At the very least, hard liquor to drown out the throbbing ache in my side? You see, there’s this _rock_ and it’s _very_ pointy and jabbing in all the wrong - ”  
  
“No. Your wounds aren’t life-threatening. You’re on your feet, aren’t you? Unlike your little elven friend, who’s gettin’ nice and cozy in the infirmary as we speak.”  
  
“ _Please_ refrain from referring to that monster as such.” Jaskier muttered, trodding miserably along. Guided only by her harsh directions and the occasional poke from the blunt side of her weapon to keep him on track. “He’s not my ‘friend.’ More like...sworn enemy. Bane of my existence.”  
  
Eventually, they came upon his cell. No roommate. Populated only by two bedrolls, a chamberpot, and a single dead rat. Much less lovely than the exterior. The inside was walled off, depriving him any sort of interaction with his neighbors. Probably for the best. Judging by their jeers as he was escorted down the hall, the general populace of the place was more unsavory than not.  
  
His bindings were removed before the guard slammed the door behind him, ignoring his queries regarding Geralt’s whereabouts. She tossed a bundle of prisoner’s clothes through the bars, which he gingerly nudged with his boot. Rough and uncomfortable and so very _ugly_.  
  
“Get changed. You’ll be on laundry duty in the morning. Five sharp.”  
  
“ _Five_? That’s barbaric - I’m a wounded man! And - _and_...you’re walking away. I hope you know I am _not_ wearing this hideous uniform. You can’t make me!” Jaskier shouted after her, gripping the bars and sticking his face between them. The effort of raising his voice had pain lancing up his side. “Hoo, that smarts. Steady on, Jaskier.”  
  
Dizziness threatened to overcome him and, upon deciding that passing out might not be the best move, Jaskier took to pacing back and forth in the small, confined space.  
  
The blasted rock would have to come out. He could feel the heat pouring off his side even without touching it. Getting any sort of infection - and who knew _what_ diseases lurked in this place - would be undesirable, to say the least.  
  
Thankfully, he was able to distract himself from all that unpleasantness. Humming a short little tune, pretending there wasn’t a foreign object lodged deep in his side, when footsteps thundered down the hall. They stopped when they reached his cell.  
  
The sight of the Witcher’s familiarly hulking, hunched form standing between two guards flooded him with instant relief. He’d ended up leaning heavily against the bars, winded from all his pacing.  
  
“Geralt! Thank the _gods_ , I was going to go absolutely insane with worry. Why did they keep you back? What happened? Is Yen - ”  
  
“Step back, prisoner.” One of the guards waved the bard, who was fluttering about near the cell door, away. “Against the wall.  
  
Jaskier obeyed with a resentful, petulant frown, watching as the door was unlocked and Geralt was nudged into the small space. Door secured behind him, another set of fresh clothes tossed in through the bars.  
  
Geralt looked terribly worn. A bruise blossomed just below his left eye. He also seemed to be in a foul mood.  
  
When the guards left, all that evaporated as Jaskier practically flung himself at him. They hurriedly checked each other over before engaging in a long, drawn-out kiss.  
  
Not too drawn-out, though, as Jaskier was incredibly lightheaded and had to take a step back to gather himself. Geralt frowned and rested a hand just beneath the blood stain on the side of the bard’s shirt.  
  
“How bad is it?”  
  
“Apparently not ‘life-threatening,’ so...that’s a comfort, I guess. Though I’m not exactly sure what process they use to determine such a thing. Not a single guard looked at it.”  
  
Geralt grunted and got to his knees before Jaskier, urging him to sit. He’d quietly been dreading this moment. Cautiously, he extracted the blouse from where it had plastered itself to the bard’s side before lifting it all the way over his head.  
  
His frown deepened when he saw the wound. The tip of a dark gray rock protruded slightly from the tender skin above the curve of his narrow hip. Small rivulets of blood leaked out around the edges, pulsing in time with Jaskier’s breathing.  
  
The blood was dark red, not bright and arterial, which was a good sign. It wasn’t near any internal organs, either. But as he gently pressed on the skin around it, he realized it had gone quite deep.  
  
“Jaskier, this is...”  
  
“What? Please let the next words out of your mouth be ‘not that bad.’”  
  
“The rock. It has to come out. Now.”  
  
Jaskier shook his head frantically, trying to back away but cringing as it sent fresh pain radiating out through his stomach, his pelvis.  
  
“Oh-ho - _hold_ up. J-just hang on a second. I mean, do we _have_ to, Geralt? It’s just - it’s been in there so long, it can probably...it’s all right if it stays in, right? I’ll just...heal around it?”  
  
“No.” Geralt’s other hand was rubbing comforting circles between Jaskier’s shoulders. “That’s not possible. Or healthy. It will get infected. Might have already.”  
  
“Geralt, _please_ \- ”  
  
“It’s okay, Jaskier. Take deep breaths, and try not to think about it. Over before you know it.”  
  
Blue eyes peered down at the wound before flitting up to the ceiling, where they remained for the duration of the nasty procedure. Nervously, he resumed the shaky little song he’d started humming earlier.  
  
“ _Saving the arch duke, one might think  
  
Would be enough to keep them out of the clink_ \- ”  
  
“On three, Jaskier. One...”  
  
Jaskier whimpered and nodded as Geralt counted. Thumb and pointer finger poised at the wound’s entrance. Best to keep singing. Anything to distract himself.  
  
“ _Now they’re jailbirds, one impaled by a rock  
  
Though he’d much rather be impaled  
  
By the other’s mighty co_ \- ow, _son of a_ \- Geralt, you _arse_ hole!” Jaskier squirmed and yelped, unable to continue his song as the man extracted the object. Carefully, so as not to cause more damage, though it was irritatingly slow. “No, I don’t mean that. You’re lovely. But _fuck_ , Geralt. Oh, still going? How _long_ is it? Don’t tell me. Fuck, fuck, fuckity _fu_ \- ”  
  
“It’s out. Sorry.” Geralt held up the stone fragment. Several inches long, slender, and incredibly sharp. It gleamed wetly in the torchlight, coated in Jaskier’s blood.  
  
After a moment, he set it down and shook his head. Impressive that Jaskier hadn’t fainted, though he’d turned an interesting shade of light green and was looking very much like he might at any given moment.  
  
“Deeper than I thought. I’ll need to stop the bleeding, you’ve lost too much already. Your heartbeat is erratic.”  
  
“Don’t like the sound of that.”  
  
“Small point of entry. No sutures, no bandages...clothes too dirty, covered in bacteria.” Geralt frowned at the wound, clasping his hand over it to staunch the flow. The small muscles of Jaskier’s abdomen flexed and tightened instinctively beneath the pressure, though he didn’t shy away. “Only one other solution.”  
  
“Oh, no. Like the sound of _that_ even less. I swear to the gods, Geralt, if you say - ”  
  
“I’ll have to cauterize it.”  
  
A horrified gasp. “ _Geralt!_ As much as I’d love to have a matching...um, gross, nasty _side_ -burn with you, I would genuinely prefer _any_ other solution. I know how much you _love_ my soft skin. Because I _moisturize_. And, you know, I’m really thinking of _you_ , here - ”  
  
“There is no other solution. We’re stuck here, with no proper tools, until morning. I’ll be gentle, Jaskier.” Geralt tried offering a reassuring smile, though his brow was furrowed, hard lines etched into his face at the prospect of having to inflict any sort of pain on his mate. “Promise. Undo my belt.”  
  
“Truly? Now is hardly the time for that, Geralt. In this filthy _trench_? Less than a foot away from a _chamberpot_?” The bard glanced down at the belt in question, before leveling Geralt with an impish little look. One hand reached out and teased the buckle. “Though, on second thoughts, I am finding myself a teeny tiny bit into it. I _guess_ I wouldn’t be opposed to - ”  
  
“Will you - that’s not...it’s to bite _down_ on, you thirsty bastard.” Geralt shook his head, all flustered exasperation. Jaskier’s hand was hovering so _very_ close - normally something he’d welcome, but they didn’t have time for the bard’s shenanigans. He felt blood seeping out between his fingers, thick and warm. The sheer volume of it accounted for the marked increase in Jaskier’s delirious rambling, instilled some panic in him. “Stop stalling. You’re going to bleed out if this takes any longer.”  
  
“Forgive me for being helplessly _titillated_ by you and your - okay, _okay_! Don’t look at me like that! I’m doing it, see? _Gods_. Patience is a virtue, Geralt.” Once it was undone, Jaskier eyed the leather belt dubiously. “This feels suspiciously like the time I was gagged. You know, I _abhor_ \- ”  
  
With an exaggerated eye roll, Geralt used his free hand to shove it unceremoniously into Jaskier’s mouth. The bard continued talking around the leather, babbling nervously as Geralt returned his attention to the injury.  
  
Concentrating the heat to the center of his palm - a small, quick burst that would seal the opening. Not hot enough to cause more damage. Precision was key. He took a deep, steadying breath and offered an apologetic glance to the bard before channeling the sign.  
  
Immediately, Jaskier shrieked and tried to wriggle away. His cries were muffled by the belt, which somehow made them more heart-wrenching. Geralt winced sympathetically and bore down harder on the wound, a single bead of sweat tickling his brow.  
  
When it was done, Jaskier had nearly bitten through thick leather, panting and cursing and looking like he was about to empty the contents of his stomach on Geralt’s lap.  
  
The Witcher quickly removed his hand - the skin beneath was shining, raw and bright pink - and pulled him close, wrapping his arms around trembling shoulders, murmuring soft reassurances in his ear.  
  
“Fuck. I’m sorry, Jaskier.” Geralt’s voice wavered uncharacteristically. Part of him had hoped the bard would pass out, sparing him from both the sight and the sensation of a cauterizing burn. No such luck. “I’m sorry.”  
  
The inmates in neighboring cells had been hooting and hollering excitedly, causing a bit of an uproar. The guard keeping watch at the end of the hall barked at them to shut up, banging on one barred door with his spear.  
  
Once he’d recovered, Jaskier extracted himself from Geralt’s arms and tried to look as reassuring as he could manage. He hated the guilt in the other man’s voice.  
  
“It’s all right, Geralt. It’s not _your_ fault. There’s no need for any of that.” He flung himself back onto one of the bedrolls, trying to even out his breathing. The fact that he was even touching the makeshift mattress was evidence of how spent he was. “But now, you must snuggle with me on this disgusting lump of hay for the remainder of the evening. I demand it.”  
  
Geralt silently complied, dragging his bedroll closer and positioning himself so that Jaskier was nestled in the crook of his arm. His hand absentmindedly drew a path starting at Jaskier’s shoulder, down his chest, eliciting a soft sound when it reached his belly button.  
  
“I hated that. I never...” He was visibly shaken by the whole ordeal. “I never want to hurt you like that again.”  
  
“I know that. Of _course_ I do. But the alternative was far worse, wasn’t it? You did what you had to. Thank the gods for your...fire...hands. Ugh, I’m woozy. ‘Fire hands?’” Jaskier inched closer, into Geralt’s touch. Face no longer tinged with green, now a bit pink around the cheeks. “Anyway, after this, I feel compelled to start calling you ‘sparky.’ How are we feeling about that one?”  
  
A snort. “I’m not a dog, Jaskier.” His hand traveled further down, but stopped abruptly when he noticed the other, glaringly prominent, _physical_ reaction his ministrations had garnered. His fingers had been moving innocently. Apparently, not innocently enough. “Really? I just burned a fucking hole in your side. You need to sleep.”  
  
Jaskier’s cheeks were a very bright red by that point. “Okay, but I _did_ warn you that I’m almost dangerously titillated.”  
  
“Stop saying that word.”  
  
The bard winced as he shifted, moving until his face was hovering above Geralt’s. “Which one? You mean titillate? _Tit-ill-ate_?”  
  
He said it slowly, enunciating every syllable and making it sound ridiculously dirty. Another snort from Geralt, though his eyes were magnetically drawn to soft, curved lips.  
  
“Stupid fucking word. Go to sleep, Jaskier.”  
  
With a huff, Jaskier rolled back over, pouting silently in Geralt’s arms. The Witcher smirked and leaned in closer, mouth hovering over Jaskier’s ear.  
  
“Don’t worry. I’ll make certain I ‘titillate’ you again, _Ja-ski-er_.” He also drew out the word, and Jaskier shivered as his hot breath hit all the right spots. It was absolute _torture_ , and Geralt knew it. “ _After_ you’ve healed.”  
  
“ _Fine_. But I’m holding you to that.” In the distance, one of their fellow delinquents laughed raucously. He kept forgetting they weren’t alone. Very weird, very creepy situation to be so hopelessly turned on in. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper before speaking again. “Don’t fancy doing it with such an...oddly _enthusiastic_ audience, anyhow. They must be otherwise deprived of such activities here. Is one of the...er, _upstanding gentlemen_ , requesting that you put my - ”  
  
Geralt quickly cut him off. Yes, he could hear that particular request _very_ clearly. No, he didn’t want to dwell on it. Or acknowledge it at all, actually.  
  
“Fuck that. Sleep now.”  
  
“I just don’t know why he feels the need to speak of our lovely assets so _crudely_ \- ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
“Right, yeah. Rest. Desperately need that. I’m supposedly on ‘laundry duty’ tomorrow, which will be...a joy, I’m sure. Anyway, sweet dreams, Geralt. Perhaps of my...what is he calling it? ‘ _Leather-stretcher_?’”  
  
“Hm.” After a beat, voice softening as he settled against the warm body beside him. “Night, Jaskier.”


	50. Chapter 50

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which a Final Destination moment ends with an oblivious Jaskier inadvertently starting a...laundry room gang? Maybe? Literally _love_ that path for him

Morning saw Jaskier blearily blinking at the guard standing in front of their cell. He’d ended up donning the ‘hideous uniform,’ as his own clothes were beyond repair, covered in blood and dirt. Ripped to hell and back.  
  
They hadn’t slept much. Spent the rest of the night worrying over and discussing Yen, Annika, and Ciri. Not knowing what was going on outside, not knowing whether the sorceress was all right or whether the others had found a safe place to hide, was torture.  
  
“Letter for you from the castle.” The guard tossed it at Jaskier’s feet, a snide look on her face. “Got friends in high places, do you? Too bad you pissed all that away and ended up here.”  
  
Jaskier scowled at her, rousing himself from where he’d been cocooned in Geralt’s arms. It was the same guard who had escorted him last night, refused him any sort of medical treatment.  
  
“Bit early for gloating, isn’t it?”  
  
“Shut up and get moving, inmate. Work starts in ten. I’ll be back for both of you in five.”  
  
She stomped off - Geralt had gotten up, was reading the letter in the corner. His brow furrowed deeply as he pored over its contents.  
  
“It’s from Yen.”  
  
“Really? Thank the gods. Is she okay?” Jaskier shot out of the bedroll, scrambling to Geralt and peering at the letter over his shoulder. He recognized the sorceress’s neat script, felt an intense surge of relief. “She...oh, that’s an awful lot of cursing.”  
  
“Not happy.” Geralt heaved a sigh. “The arch duke is still unconscious. His wife woke last night, tried clearing our names herself. Guards won’t listen to her or Yen. Guess they need to hear it from the fucking horse’s mouth.”  
  
“She’s fighting tooth and nail to get us out. And...” Jaskier scanned the words, looking for two names in particular. “She put Ciri and Annika up in her chateau outside the city.” He made an indistinguishable noise, sort of like a screech. “She has a bloody _chateau_ and still made us stay in that disgusting inn? For _ages_? Honestly, the nerve.”  
  
Geralt snorted, folding the letter back up and slipping it into his pocket. “I’m sure she had her reasons. Seems the guards are posted at the inn, hoping Annika will come back so they can arrest her, too.”  
  
“This is fucked, Geralt. How long until the arch duke wakes? If I have to spend another night listening to our neighbor _pleasure_ himself,” Jaskier raised his voice then, shooting a glare at the shared wall. “ _very_ loudly, not caring _who_ hears him, I will absolutely lose my _shit_!”  
  
“Fuck off, ya wee prick!”  
  
The response was muffled, followed by something metallic being flung against the wall, shaking their cell. It sounded suspiciously like a chamberpot, liquid sloshing to the floor. Jaskier scampered back a few paces, gasping and readying a scathing response - Geralt quickly stepped in, placed a soothing hand on his shoulder.  
  
“Let’s try not to piss anyone off today, Jaskier.” With the thumb of his other hand, he tilted the bard’s chin up, lips quirked in amusement. “Don’t want you getting shanked the second I turn my back.”  
  
“But he _started_ it, Geralt - ”  
  
The guard returned, glowering at both of them as she unlocked the cell door. Quite an attitude problem on that one, Jaskier surmised.  
  
“Quit causing a scene. You, the big fellow,” she gestured to Geralt. “you’ve been assigned to the courtyard. Cleaning, sweeping. Breaking up fights. Cushy job, more freedom than most. You’re lucky.”  
  
“Can’t I do that, too?” Jaskier stepped towards her, but froze when she reached for her spear. “Let me switch with someone. You know, you shouldn’t separate us, I’m prone to - ”  
  
“As if. A shrimp like you couldn’t stop a prison brawl. You’re on laundry, and that’s final. Once you’ve been assigned a job there’s no _switching_.” Jaskier opened his mouth, but she cut him off. “Say another fucking word about it and I’ll revoke your meal privileges for the day.”  
  
Before they were separated, Geralt caught Jaskier’s sleeve. The bard looked worried, knew his big mouth tended to land him in trouble. In a prison filled with criminals, something was bound to happen.  
  
“I’ll come check on you, Jaskier.” The Witcher tilted his head to the side, offering a reassuring smile. “Keep to yourself and...don’t speak. To anyone.”  
  
“ _Ha_. Easy for you to say.”  
  
The guard allowed them a quick kiss before hustling them to their respective jobs.

♜ ♖

The laundry room was situated at the southern side of the courtyard. Surprisingly large and well-supplied, with high ceilings and massive doors. A few back rooms. There were about six or seven other inmates working with Jaskier, and each had their own set complete with a washboard, a bucket of soapy water, several rags and a stool. Large piles of _very_ smelly-looking clothes sat beside each station.  
  
As Jaskier grudgingly went to sit on the only empty stool, a large man approached him. He was old but fierce-looking, and the bard instantly cringed and cowered back into the corner. The place was poorly-lit, casting ominous shadows across the stranger’s face.  
  
“I recognize you. You sharin’ a cell with the Witcher? You’re the...the chatty, screamin’ bloke, right?”  
  
Jaskier wasn’t entirely sure what that meant, but he nodded all the same. Fight or flight instincts ready to kick in at a moment’s notice. The man was standing very, _very_ close.  
  
“We were placing bets on whether he’d fuck ye or kill ye.” He stopped to consider something for a moment. “Or both.”  
  
“You _what_?” Jaskier blanched. “ _Ugh_. Thank you for that horrifying glimpse into the world of prison entertainment.”  
  
“Nah, don’t take it personal. Always some sort of bet on the newcomers. And the dialogue between you two was confusing. We weren’t sure how it was goin’ to play out for a while there.”  
  
“Oh.” Jaskier thought back, nodding and quietly mhm’ing as he went over some of their more dubious phrasing in his head. He and Geralt did tend to insult each other more often than not. “I guess that makes sense. Happy to know our _private_ conversation was a matter of such debate. So...um, are - are we done here, or - ah, still talking. Right. Carry on.”  
  
“Lost a fair bit of coin. How was I to know he prefers the company of squirrelly lil’ fellas like yerself?” He cackled, clapping Jaskier roughly on the back before returning to his station. The bard rubbed his shoulder, mouthing the word ‘squirrelly’ with a disgruntled frown. “He looked awful mean stalking down the hall. When they stopped in front of yer cell, I thought for sure you were a goner. Though he seems civil enough. At least compared to the other Witchers I’ve encountered.”  
  
“Quite...” Jaskier sniffed, awkwardly shuffling back to his own washboard, squinting at the man and trying to figure him out. It was a very confusing exchange. After a moment, deciding he was a safe enough distance, he allowed curiosity to get the better of him. “Wh-what other Witchers? What were they like?”  
  
The man seemed pleased that he was continuing their conversation. Now that they were no longer crowded into a dark, shadowy corner, he realized his newfound companion wasn’t nearly as scary as he’d originally thought. Just a talkative old man. Jaskier could work with that.  
  
“Let’s see...there was one fellow passed through the city a few months ago. Hunting some foul beast in the outskirts. Spent most of his time at the brothel, didn’t speak much. I ran a stall in the marketplace just next door, you see. Before the guards snagged me.”  
  
“Yikes. _My_ Witcher has enjoyed his fair share of brothels, too, though he speaks a _lot_ to those that listen.” Jaskier cringed at the murky, frothy water in his wooden bucket. The pile of dirty clothes waiting to be cleaned by _his_ poor, delicate hands. “Is there any way I might be able to get out of touching...any of this?”  
  
“Least you weren’t put on chamberpot duty. They have it rough. No switching jobs, either, unless you know the right palms to grease.”  
  
“Ch- _chamberpot_ \- ?” Jaskier clutched his chest, looking horrified. “Perish the _thought_. I get that this whole work system is supposed to give us something to do, but sifting through dirty laundry and cleaning up after a stranger’s...er, _expulsions_ is just a civilized form of torture, really. I’d much rather - ”  
  
Any thoughts of what he’d rather be doing were interrupted by the large laundry room doors swinging open. One inmate stood at the entrance, tall and battle-hardened. He offered something to the guard positioned outside, who glanced down at the small coin purse in his hand, nodded, and fucked off.  
  
The doors slammed shut behind him, and that giant inmate immediately zeroed in on Jaskier. _Shit_. He looked to his new friend, the other laundrymen, but they were suddenly all clearing out. Murmuring something about having to go to the back room to steam-dry the clean clothes.  
  
“Oh, that’s - I thought we _had_ something!” Jaskier called after the old man, who didn’t offer a single glance back in his direction. “You, sir, are a _traitor_.”  
  
The newcomer smirked and Jaskier nearly fell off his stool in his efforts to stand, accidentally kicking it over. This resulted in his bucket being overturned as well, spilling soapy water all over the floor.  
  
He tried shrinking back against the wall, as if he might disappear. Protectively clutching one of the rags he’d plucked from his pile - squeaking and immediately dropping it when he realized it was a pair of drawers. Managed to grab the washboard, which had sailed across the puddle, bumping against his boot.  
  
“Uh...I-I-I don’t suppose you’re the welcoming crew?” The man’s face was blanketed in shadows as he stalked towards the bard. The sleeves of his uniform had been ripped off, exposing the leathered skin of two ridiculously muscular, terribly scarred arms. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”  
  
Things escalated quickly from there. The man lunged, grabbed the front of his shirt and threw him back against the wall. He yelped as the violent motions jostled his side, the healing burn screaming in protest, tight skin stretching and pulling uncomfortably.  
  
“What’s the matter, Jaskier?” His attacker bared his teeth in a wicked grin. “Don’t you recognize me?”  
  
He knew his name. Never a good sign, he’d come to realize. He noticed there was a bolt of cloth tied about that massive bicep. Just a rag, but it had been dyed a deep shade of maroon.  
  
Shit turned to _fuck_ in an instant. One of Forle’s men. Might have been taken in by the guards last night, after the battle. Or perhaps ended up here for other, unrelated life choices. Was their boss dead? Was this man exacting revenge?  
  
Or was Forle alive, and had somehow managed to give him the order to _kill_ Jaskier from the infirmary?  
  
Either way, the bard’s mind was going a mile a minute. He flattened himself against the wall, watching as the man drew a sharpened piece of metal. It had been worked into the general shape of a crude, curved blade.  
  
“Oh, fuck. Look, th-there’s no need to do anything rash. It was in self-defense, you see, Forle is - was? - completely off his _rocker_ , he wanted to - ”  
  
Suddenly, as the armed man made to lunge at him again, his foot slipped in the slick puddle. He comically scrambled around, trying to grab onto something for purchase - that happened to be the closest thing to him, _Jaskier_ , who shrieked and stepped away.  
  
The man crashed to the ground, landing heavily, awkwardly on the stool. His neck bent at a strange angle over one of its legs, head cracking against the stone floor with a wet _splat_. And oh, gods. There was a _lot_ of blood swirling in the water, pouring out _very_ fast...  
  
“Oh, _fuck_!” Jaskier repeated, more emphatically this time, gagging at the sight of it and covering his eyes. Speaking to no one in particular, voice cracking terribly as he tried edging around the body. “H-he’s probably okay, right? Are you...okay?” Peeked out through his fingers, made a disgusted retching sound. “Nope, _no_. Definitely, definitely _not_ \- ”  
  
The doors burst open again and a blur of white and brown rocketed in, wielding a broom. Jaskier had removed his hand, was unable to look away from the _corpse_. Managed to tear his eyes off it long enough to make out the form of Geralt. He was poised, ready to attack. They both started speaking at the same time.  
  
“Gods - Ger _alt_! Perfect timing. Will you please get me away from this - _this_ \- ”  
  
“Overheard one of Forle’s men discussing you in the yard, bragging about...Jaskier, what the fuck?” The Witcher stopped short near the door when he saw Jaskier, standing above a very large, very motionless body. Clutching a washboard. The blood in the puddle had branched out, nearly reaching his feet. “Is he - ”  
  
“I don’t _know_ , it all happened so fast. The floor is _really_ slippery, I spilled all the water in my bucket, and - and his neck hit the stool at a bad angle, and...” Jaskier was babbling, words coming in varying high pitches as they only did when he was incredibly frazzled. “...bribed a guard, had a _knife_ \- look how big his _arms_ are, Geralt, and he...”  
  
“Deep breaths, Jaskier. Are you hurt?” When Jaskier quickly shook his head, Geralt scanned the bleeding man, dropping the broom when he realized he was dead. “No pulse. Shit. This looks...bad.”  
  
His fellow laundrymen chose that moment to step back into the room. Probably expecting to find Jaskier’s dead body. Certainly not expecting to find the reverse, with the bard fluttering nervously about a mangled corpse, the washboard - looking like a weapon, now - still held tightly to his chest.  
  
“That was Thas the Bloodthirsty. Feared throughout the city.” One of them fixed Jaskier with an amazed, shocked look. He had a thick, northern accent. “You _killed_ him - ”  
  
For the third time in the span of less than five minutes, the doors flew open. A handful of guards hustled in - Jaskier recognized one as the man Forle’s thug had paid off. He looked just as surprised at the outcome, color draining from his face.  
  
“What’s going on in here?” The head guard stepped forward, cautiously, eyeing the body on the floor. “Who did this? Speak up!”  
  
Jaskier realized he had no witnesses, and it looked very plainly like he’d brutalized another human being. To _death_. With a whimper, he dropped the washboard, pink, bloody water splashing up and staining his knickers.  
  
Before he could speak, the one who had put a name to the dead man piped up again. “He slipped, sir. Came in looking to kill, but the floor was too wet. Thank the gods none of us were injured.”  
  
“There is a _body_ lying before me.” The guard hissed, gesturing for his men to check it out. They approached reluctantly, the one who had been bribed casting fearful glances at Jaskier. “You really expect me to believe this brute ‘ _slipped_?’ And the little shit covered in blood, wielding a _washboard_ , had no hand in it?”  
  
Another launderer piped up from the corner. “All of us saw it.” They didn’t. “The newbie told him to be careful of the wet floor, but...” He hadn’t. What was happening? Why were they lying? They’d left him to die, literally _moments_ ago.  
  
“Sir...” A guard cringed, poking at the corpse’s head with the butt of his spear. “He’s most certainly dead.”  
  
“ _Obviously_. His brain is leaking out on the fucking floor. Surrounded by idiots in this godsforsaken place.” The head guard shook his head, massaging his temples. “Confiscate the knife. Bring him to the morgue. These arseholes won’t talk, and _that_ arsehole shouldn’t have been in here in the first place.”  
  
“Yes, sir.”  
  
He turned to them. Seemed to think Geralt was part of the laundry crew, lumping him in with the rest. “As for you worthless cocks, clean this mess up. Get back to work. Any more funny business and I’ll throw the lot of you in solitary for a week.” 

♜ ♖

They did as they were told, mopping up the gore. Geralt stayed behind, not keen on leaving Jaskier after that whole ordeal. None of the guards had noticed his absence, either. Or simply didn’t give a shit, likely assuming he’d been jumped in an alley somewhere. They didn’t seem terribly concerned about the safety of their prisoners, which wasn’t very reassuring.  
  
The old man had apologized to Jaskier for abandoning him, looking quite nervous as he did. Giving some excuse about having a bad back, being unable to fight properly.  
  
“Tons of those fucking gangsters in here after last night.” The launderer with the heavy accent who had lied to the guards on Jaskier’s behalf. He gestured to the maroon rag floating in the puddle as he spoke. “Always think they have the bloody run of the place. Too big for their breeches, if you ask me. ‘Bout time all that changed.”  
  
Jaskier realized he was speaking to him, expecting an answer. He hadn’t really been listening, offered a distracted little half-nod. “Yeah. Change is...good, I guess? Good luck with - ”  
  
“You really _killed_ him, though. Killed Thas, with a bloody _washboard_. You did the whole place a favor, there. He was locked up months ago, and he’s been a pain in our arse ever since. Heard you fucked their leader up, too. Still in the infirmary. Critical condition.”  
  
“Yeah.” Jaskier was still nodding, but stopped short when he processed what had been said. “Wait, what? I didn’t _kill_ anyone, and I certainly didn’t _fuck_ Forle up, it was - ”  
  
“‘Self-defense.’ Right.” The man winked at him. “More will come, after this. Want us to send them a message, before they get any ideas?” At that, Geralt raised a brow. “Paul here makes excellent shivs. Needle-thin, right? One jab to an organ of your choice and the entry wound closes right back up. No evidence. We can jump ‘em, after supper - ”  
  
“You - _what_? Who’s _Paul_?” The old man raised his hand, and Jaskier crinkled his nose. He’d been conversing with a supposed shiv connoisseur. “And why the hell are you asking _me_? No, no... _jumping_. No shivs. I appreciate your concern, but...no.”  
  
“Are you sure, boss?” The man frowned when he didn’t receive a response, though Jaskier was preoccupied with slowly putting the pieces of what was happening together. “Boss? Is there anything else we can do for you?”  
  
The bard finally understood. They really thought he’d killed one of the most feared men in the prison. The city. And rumors were circulating that he’d been the one to put the infamous elf in the infirmary, though it had been more of a group effort.  
  
Add all that to the fact that apparently, Forle’s men were a nuisance, asserting their authority over the inmates, just begging to be dealt with - it made sense, that they’d turn to him.  
  
Jaskier snorted. If only they knew he was just hopelessly clumsy, had bumbled around and knocked over his bucket. Thas actually _had_ slipped and fallen, in an oddly fortunate turn of events. Well, sort of fortunate. Jaskier was still struggling with the residual trauma - and _nausea_ \- that came from watching a man’s brain leak out of his skull before him.  
  
He decided he should nip whatever this was in the bud as soon as possible. It wasn’t morally sound to lie to these men, allow them to _do_ things for him under false pretenses. Do things...like...  
  
“Well, since you’re asking...” Geralt was shaking his head, but Jaskier skirted smoothly around him, ignoring his disapproving glare. “All that wonderful...um, _violence_ has left me absolutely knackered.” He did not appreciate the Witcher’s exaggerated eye roll. “Is there maybe somewhere private we can go? Need a little alone time and, you know, this one’s supposed to be...sweeping, or something. Can’t have the guards finding him here.”  
  
The man nodded, a slick smile on his face. “Got it, boss. We’ve a bit of booze in the back, if you’re interested. It’s a steam room, supposed to be for the laundry, but we use it to relax when the guards aren’t looking. Sound all right?”  
  
“‘All right?’ That sounds _delightful_!” Jaskier exclaimed, but then quickly cleared his throat, trying to sound a bit more serious. “I mean, that is...sufficient, yes.”  
  
“All right. We’ll shout if any more of that fucker’s men rear their ugly heads, give you the pleasure.” He smashed his fist into the open palm of his hand suggestively. Jaskier squinted at the gesture, trying to decipher it. “Stash is under a loose floorboard, to the left of the steaming rocks. Need anything else, let us know. ‘Til then, we’ll take care of your work load and await your next orders.” 

♜ ♖

“Are we going to talk about this?” Geralt was standing at the center of the room, dry steam billowing around him. The bard had already shed his shirt, flung himself onto the wooden bench, and was now allowing the heat to soothe his aching body.  
  
“ _Must_ we?” Jaskier pawed at the air in Geralt’s general direction. With his other hand, he took a sip of the dubious bottle of liquor he’d procured from under the floorboard. “ _Wow_ , that is... _fruity_. Is it...plum? Cherry? Some sort of stone fruit. A bit soapy, too. Anyway, alone time isn’t for _talking_ , Geralt. Come join me - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt grudgingly obliged and took a seat beside him. The heat had him slipping off his shirt as well, though he stubbornly crossed his arms over his chest. “You’ve just formed an organized group of criminals. Another word for that is..?”  
  
The implication elicited a scandalized gasp from the bard. “It’s not a _gang_ , Geralt! They’re just...friends. _Yes_. Very accommodating friends, who spared me from a day of touching dirty breeches.”  
  
“They called you ‘boss.’ You’re giving orders.” He shook his head. “This won’t end well.”  
  
“Granted, but now we have _perks_. And a little bit of extra protection, until the arch duke wakes up and clears our names. What’s the worst that could happen?”  
  
“Damn it, Jaskier. What did I tell you about that phrase?” Geralt groaned, dropping his head back against the wood-paneled wall with a loud _thunk_. “Every fucking time you say it, the worst _does_ happen. What if Forle recovers and hears of this? Decides to retaliate? Your little posse won’t stand a chance against his wrath.”  
  
“But Pete’s _shivs_ \- oh, all right. All _right_. You win. I’ll call it off. Tell them no more...favors or ‘boss’ business, or whatever.” Jaskier shifted until his head was comfortably in Geralt’s lap, large blue eyes peering innocently up at him. “But can we please enjoy this for one measly day? Just one, and then it’s _over_.”  
  
“Hm. Fine.” Geralt let out a long breath through his nose and carded his hand through the bard’s downy hair. Perhaps it was the pleasantness of the steam, the way it reminded him of the saunas in Skellige, that had him relenting. Definitely not those saucer-like, puppy-dog eyes _pleading_ with him. “But if the situation goes to shit, which it inevitably will, I’ll say your other favorite phrase.”  
  
Another gasp. “You _wouldn’t_! You know I absolutely _hate_ it when you get on your bloody high horse and tell me - ”  
  
“Tell you what?” Geralt put on a serious face, the very one he used every time one of Jaskier’s blunders landed him in a world of trouble. “You mean, ‘I told you so?’”  
  
Jaskier tried to look angry, but was beaming too brightly for it to have much effect, cheeks flushed from the hot steam. There was no way for him to maintain the facade when he was sharing such a blissful moment of relaxation with his lover.  
  
“Yes, _Geralt_. But I’m a good sport. I’ll allow _one_ ‘I told you so.’ Besides, it’s like I said - just for today. Nothing will come of it, and by midnight I’ll have turned back into a stinking, laundering _pumpkin_.”  
  
Geralt leaned down, pressed a light kiss to his forehead.  
  
“We’ll see.”


	51. Chapter 51

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I hope this update isn’t too low energy compared to others, I am sickkkkkkkk and running on 2 hour sleep fumes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt’s stress levels are PEAKING! Jaskier briefly HALLUCINATES! Some guy SHITS HIMSELF!

After steaming and relaxing, Jaskier decided to test the boundaries of this new, small lump of power. It wasn’t often that anyone _really_ listened to him. Definitely not an entire _group_ of people at his beck and call - he found himself a bit drunk off of it.  
  
It might have also been the hooch - some sort of crude, homemade grain alcohol - which had him staggering haphazardly out from the back room in a cloud of steam, a somewhat annoyed, incredibly sober Witcher in tow.  
  
“You! With the...no hair.” Jaskier’s voice slurred as he made vague gestures towards the launderer with a glaring, shiny bald spot atop his head. He self-consciously covered it with his hand. “What else can we do for fun around here? Maybe go outside, have a _picnic_? I want to feel the warm kiss of mid-autumn sunlight upon my tender skin, to eat succulent berries and let their sweet juices trickle down my - who the fuck is that?”  
  
He was referring to another inmate, one he didn’t recognize. Certainly not part of the laundry crew. His arms were crossed over his chest as he regarded Jaskier with a disgusted look.  
  
“ _This_ is him?” He turned to the accented fellow who seemed to have declared himself Jaskier’s right-hand man. The bard realized he should probably start inquiring after names. “You yankin’ me? I didn’t come here to listen to some drunk-arse namby-pamby prattle on about fuckin’ picnics and _juices_ \- ”  
  
“’ _Namby-pamby_?’ That’s quite _rude_ \- ”  
  
The man cut Jaskier off. “Should’a known you laundry folks were all talk. Bunch’a lowlives, spending all your time gettin’ pissed off swill and fumes, shirkin’ your duties.”  
  
“We do _not_!” Jaskier exclaimed, though he’d only been a part of that particular crew for a few hours by then and was most definitely sloshed. Behind him, he heard Geralt snicker, unable to move past ‘namby-pamby.’ “Also, what’s this about ‘fumes?’ I do feel a bit loopy, now that you mention - ”  
  
“Aye, a side effect of the cleanin’ fluid, quite potent in the steam room. Some hallucinations, everything’s nice and fuzzy for a few minutes. But don’t worry, boss. I’ve got this.” Accent Man chimed in, raising his hand to politely quiet Jaskier, who was still grappling with the idea that he’d unwittingly inhaled something _hallucinogenic_. He turned to the newcomer with narrowed eyes. “This ‘namby-pamby’ took down Thas the Bloodthirsty with his bare hands. Bashed his skull right in. Lil’ savage, he is, even if he does talk funny. Anyone’s gonna solve our ‘infestation,’ it’s him.”  
  
For the first time, the newcomer looked impressed. “That was _Thas_? Saw them cartin’ off a body, face bloodied beyond all recognition. Heard the head was deflated, brains all slipped out. So that means you really maimed the elven bastard, too?”  
  
Gods. He desperately needed to rectify this little miscommunication before it snowballed out of control. But the _perks_. Tomorrow, for sure.  
  
Instead of coming clean, Jaskier nodded a little too quickly. “Oh, yeah. For sure. Crushed that head like a...” he gagged involuntarily, choking on the word. “ugh, g- _grape_.” Turned to Geralt for support, because he was receiving some odd looks from his audience - too many, as whatever he’d inhaled had his vision doubling. Tripling. Going back to normal for one blessed moment. “Right, Geralt? Back me up here. You wonderful, pretty... _sparkly_...” Jaskier cleared his throat, trying to blink away the bright little lights he saw winking playfully about Geralt’s head.  
  
“No.”  
  
The Witcher’s brow twitched in irritation at Jaskier’s hand, which repeatedly pawed at him, missing several times by about a foot. Stupid, plastered idiot. The fumes had only given Geralt a slight headache, though that could have more accurately been attributed to the bard’s ridiculous antics.  
  
Thankfully, the horribly uncomfortable looks only lasted for a minute more before the stranger dropped his arms and let out a booming laugh. “High as a kite, this one.” He stuck his hand out to Jaskier, who had to focus very hard on grabbing it. Thankfully, the effects of the steam were ebbing away by the second. “Tege. Of Tigg. I head the cookin’ crew.” He gestured to the man with the accent. “Drozdor here mentioned you were startin’ a movement against that band of mobsters. Happy to lend the kitchen staff to the cause.”  
  
Jaskier was very preoccupied with the whirlwind of strange words and names that had just come out of Tege’s mouth, repeating them softly under his breath like a particularly baffling tongue twister. “Tigg...T-Tege of _Tigg_. Tegeoftigg. Tigg of - bollocks, _Tege_ of - ”  
  
Knowing that process was likely to go on for a fucking eternity, Geralt sighed and stepped in. “Look, we’re not interested in - ”  
  
Tege swiftly interrupted him, which merited a fierce glare. “Before you say no, you’ll listen to what I’m offering - seconds and thirds for every meal if you put us under your protection. Dessert, too. Those fucks have tainted my kitchen. Started smugglin’ in fisstech, and I’m not keen on adding any more time to my sentence.”  
  
The bard had gasped at and was now stuck on the word ‘dessert.’ Shaking off the remnants of the weird floaty-head feeling, he nodded eagerly, resting a hand on Geralt’s shoulder to quiet any further protests. He’d been promised one day, and if he could get dessert - _triple dessert_ \- out of it, he’d seize that opportunity without a moment’s consideration.  
  
“You have yourself a deal, Tigg. _Tege_.” Jaskier shook his head, not wanting to go down that rabbit hole again. “Best to keep this on the down-low. For now, at least. A lot of...moving parts. Yeah. That goes for all of you. No more gossiping. We are just a simple _gathering_ of gentlemen with a common goal of - of keeping the _peace_ , more than anything - ”  
  
“Gang.” Geralt corrected quietly, glowering at the bard.  
  
Tege grinned, pleased. “Gotcha,” he winked and swiped a finger across the tip of his nose to indicate his discretion, “ _boss_. Come by before supper. A simple threat’ll do - get him to fuck off, out of my kitchen, and you’ll have the loyalty of me and my people.”  
  
“Care less about that. More about dessert. Is it pie? Cake?” Jaskier bounced excitedly at the prospect. They’d thrived off the slop at the inn for weeks, and he imagined prison food to be just as unpleasant. “Custard? Tart? Sambocade? Something with _figs_?”  
  
And honestly, the Witcher was baffled that none of these men thought to question _any_ of what was transpiring. Blindly following Jaskier, who was clearly not cut out for leading anything other than a band at a ball. Were they really that desperate for change? How long before the facade fell, and Jaskier got himself into real trouble?  
  
Blowing the bard’s cover at that point would ultimately serve to put him in more danger rather than less, however. A problem Geralt hadn’t thought of until that moment, as he scanned the faces of the laundrymen and Tege. Drozdor in particular, as on his neck he sported several brands that Geralt knew to be associated with the Big Four.  
  
These were still hardened criminals, whose actions had landed them in a high-security prison. Criminals that Jaskier would have to continue to work with, even after revealing he’d lied to their faces. Geralt’s jokes that morning about his lover being shanked suddenly seemed in very poor taste.  
  
No time to discuss it privately with the bard, either. He could do nothing but silently brood and worry as Tege left, reminding Jaskier of their deal before he did.

♜ ♖

By the time supper came around, word had clearly gotten out. As they stepped out into the courtyard - squinting at the early evening sun as it aggravated a massive, shared headache - Geralt noticed all eyes were on Jaskier. It seemed the rumor mill worked overtime in this fucking place, despite the bard’s orders to keep things quiet.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
They were headed to the kitchen, which was down a small path. There was no dining hall and food was served outdoors on beaten-up wooden tables. It was a free-for-all, and tensions seemed very high as the prison’s inhabitants circled the food like sharks smelling blood.  
  
“Yes, Jaskier?”  
  
A small group of burly men sat at a table across the yard, glaring at the duo as they made their way to the kitchen. One inmate in an apron, passing by with a large pot of stew, gave Jaskier an approving little head jerk.  
  
“I’m starting to get the sense that things are spiraling out of control.” His voice wavered, suddenly nervous at the prospect of having to threaten another human being. “Who could have possibly told them all? Does word really travel that fast around here? Honestly, it’s not like I’ve actually _done_ anything that unheard of. Right?”  
  
“Aside from amassing a small army and starting a ‘movement’ for the sole purpose of getting a slice of cake?” Geralt shot an intimidating look at the group of men that had them quickly looking away. “No, nothing at all.”  
  
“But it’s _cake_ , Geralt! Or pie, or custard...but you’re right. I’ll have to come clean tomorrow.” Jaskier huffed a miserable sigh - he was fond of attention, was a showman at heart, but found himself shrinking away from this particular brand. “I feel like a choice cut of meat on display at the marketplace.”  
  
Geralt smirked at the analogy, though the emotion didn’t reach his eyes. “About coming clean...it might be best to let these men think you’re more dangerous than you are. For your own protection.” A sigh, as he’d been mulling it over for most of the afternoon. Along with fashioning a weapon from the broken end of his broom, stashed safely in his waistband. “Have a feeling this is something they’ve all been waiting for.”  
  
Jaskier frowned. “‘Waiting for?’ Whatever do you mean?”  
  
“Think about it, Jaskier. How fast it gained momentum. If Forle’s men have had the run of the place for this long, those not in their gang will be desperate to end his reign. This will end in violence. A riot, at the very least.”  
  
“A _riot_ , Geralt? What the flying fuck am I going to do in the midst of a bloody prison _riot_ , I can’t - ” Jaskier froze as they reached the kitchen, lowering his voice when he saw Tege beckoning them to enter. “Gods, Geralt, I don’t want to intimidate or _threaten_ anyone. You know I get terribly rashy when faced with aggression.”  
  
“I know.” Geralt’s voice was painfully affectionate, as he thought of the way the bard shied from violence - found solace in that endearing quality, one so few possessed. “Let me do the talking, Jaskier.”  
  
Forle’s man was easy to point out. In the stockroom, rummaging through crates and producing small bags of a fine, white powder. When he saw them, he spun around and snarled.  
  
“What the fuck are you two doing back here?” He reached into his back pocket, produced a knife. It still had bits of cabbage on it. “You’re not kitchen staff. Fuck off, unless you want to lose an ear.”  
  
Jaskier squeaked as soon as he saw the weapon, but Geralt swiftly drew his own. The man paused, recognition dawning on him - along with a wicked smirk, directed at the bard.  
  
“Ah. You’re the pompous little twat everyone’s been buzzing about.” He took a step closer, chapped lips cracking as his smile grew. “Not very smart. You may have these sheep fooled, but not us. We know you, Jaskier. You’re no killer. Just a cowardly bard with a streak of good luck. Only alive this long because the boss has a hard-on for you. What really happened to Thas? Unleash your pet monster on him?”  
  
Geralt growled. “Leave off.”  
  
He didn’t. “And Forle’s here, in the infirmary. Healing up quick. Soon as he finds out, it’s bye-bye bard. Don’t care how bad he wants to fuck you. Nobody moves in on his turf and lives.”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but you’re going to stop all of...this.” Jaskier gestured to the bags of fisstech. Tege might have been within earshot, he had to keep up appearances. “Smuggling drugs in with the groceries? _Really_? How cliche can you get?”  
  
“Shut your fucking mouth, or I’ll sew it shut. Give your ‘friend’ here one less warm hole to - ”  
  
The Witcher decided he’d had enough. Nobody talked to Jaskier like that. With his boot, he slammed the storeroom door shut, not allowing prying eyes to see what was about to unfold.  
  
The action alone had the thug charging at him but he used the unsharpened side of his broom handle to swiftly jab him in the throat, causing him to drop the knife and stumble back, clutching a crushed windpipe.  
  
Geralt didn’t relent after that. He fisted his hand in the man’s greasy, black hair, forcing his head up as he staggered and gasped. Dropped the broom and with his free hand, poised his fingers before the man’s face. When he spoke, his voice was low and menacing, channeling the sign he’d used on the arch duke’s guard.  
  
“You’re going to burn all the drugs you’ve smuggled in, and not accept any future orders. This little arrangement is over for good.” His grip had the man’s hair practically tearing from the root, tugging painfully at his scalp, but he didn’t react and was unable to look away from Geralt’s hand. “You won’t speak a word of this to anyone, and you won’t lay a fucking finger on Jaskier because you know I’ll rip you limb from limb and the thought of it has you shitting yourself.”  
  
Judging by the twisted-up look on the man’s face, and the sudden stench, he took that last order a bit too literally. Jaskier pulled his shirt up over his mouth and nose, making horrified sounds behind the fabric - Geralt released the inmate’s hair with a disgusted look on his face, stepping back as he fell to his knees.  
  
“Gods, Geralt!” Despite how gross the situation was, Jaskier was unable to hold back his amusement. “Did you mean to _actually_ make him shit himself?”  
  
“Ugh, no.” Geralt shook his head, scowling at the pathetic lump of a man before him. “Fucking disgusting. Grab the knife.”  
  
“Ew, Geralt! Don’t make me go _near_ him!”  
  
The Witcher snorted, bent down and picked up the discarded knife. Handed it to Jaskier - the subtle tremble in the bard’s fingers as they clasped around it didn’t escape him, but it was better if it looked like he’d been the one to resolve the kitchen’s problem.  
  
When they stepped out, Tege was pulling hot buns out of the oven. He and the rest of the kitchen staff watched as Forle’s man crab-walked out behind them, bags of fisstech cradled in his arms. As if under a spell, he tossed them into the fire.  
  
The cook grinned, approaching Jaskier and clapping him on the back. He gave an approving nod at the knife clutched awkwardly in his hand. “True to your word. I like that. A rarity, in here.” He handed Jaskier a picnic basket. “Around back you’ll find some privacy. Nice little grassy spot, away from the rabble. You earned it, and our loyalty.”  
  
Jaskier instantly forgot all of his reservations as he took in the heavenly smell and sight of fresh-baked pie, nestled atop piping hot rolls of bread, generous portions of meat, and a warm blanket.  
  
He and Geralt went around back, and realized Tege had very much been understating the beauty of the small spot. It was an herb garden, dappled in the fading sunlight. It wouldn’t have been so overwhelming had they been in the outside world but here, in this bleak little bubble, it was like a tiny oasis.  
  
Jaskier excitedly set the blanket down, practically drooling at the thought of all the scrumptious food. They only got one meal per day, and he imagined the other inmates wouldn’t be eating half as well as they were about to.  
  
“Are you all right, Geralt?”  
  
The larger man sat protectively beside Jaskier, looking extremely on edge as he silently kept watch. As though Forle might pop out at any moment. That brute’s threats had clearly gotten under his skin.  
  
“Just want to get the fuck out of this place.” Geralt accepted the roll he was offered, taking a needlessly aggressive bite, as though the thing had personally offended him. Being trapped in the high walls of this jail with their most fearsome enemy was starting to get to him. “Want to get _you_ the fuck out.”  
  
“It’s only a matter of time. How long can that bloody noble remain unconscious?” Jaskier broke a piece of crust off the pie, moaning as the buttery, flaky morsel melted in his mouth. “Fuck me, this pie is _so_ worth all that nonsense. You _have_ to have some, I simply won’t take no for an answer.”  
  
Geralt grunted, opened his mouth to speak - the irritation in his face dissolved as the bard popped a bite into his mouth, an amused smirk dancing on his lips as he chewed. “Pretty damn good.”  
  
“I mean, we’re still sleeping in a two-foot cell tonight...ugh, and next to that _pervert_...and maybe we’re in a teeny tiny bit of danger, with that monster on the mend, but...” Jaskier glanced down at their legs, tangled together on the blanket, “there’s no one else on this earth I’d rather be stuck here with. And not just because you keep me safe, and apparently have the ability to make men shit themselves on command. You - you make everything better.”  
  
“You, too.” Geralt’s hand snaked around the bard’s waist as he did, pulling their bodies closer. “But I’d prefer not to mention that incident. Ever again.”  
  
“Oh, _no_ , Geralt.” Jaskier grinned, abandoning the pie in his attempts to sate a different sort of hunger. He moved until their faces were incredibly close. “You are never, _ever_ living that down.” 

♜ ♖

Night fell. In the infirmary, a shadowed form approached one of the beds. One arm was shackled to its frame with a pulsing, greenish cuff. The chain attaching it lead to another cuff, that had been tightly secured to the bicep of a handless arm. When the patient spoke, his voice rasped from disuse.  
  
“Anyone notice you?”  
  
“No, sir.”  
  
“Good.” The elf glanced out the window, at the empty courtyard below. Bathed in moonlight. His eyes zeroed in on the building that housed all the sleeping inmates. “Report? What did we bring in from that last batch?”  
  
The other man shifted uncomfortably, not used to the oppressive weight of a guard’s uniform. Besides, bringing Forle bad news was never a favorable job, though the cuffs neutered his more terrifying abilities. He was a good leader, but violently unpredictable when angry.  
  
“Our man burned it all. Actin’ weird, now, like he’s under some sort of enchantment...” He swallowed thickly, not liking how quiet the elf was. “There’s something else...a rival gang popped up, seemingly overnight. That little problem you wanted taken care of, well...he’s behind it. Fucked with our shipment, no doubt. Don’t know how, but the other inmates are flocking to him like flies on shit, and he’s claiming he defeated you in battle. There’s talk of - ”  
  
Forle’s cat-like eyes widened before going cold with rage - without warning, he slid down, swiveling his hips and using the momentum to fling his legs out and wrap them about the man’s throat, slamming him face-first onto the bed, mercilessly cutting off his air supply.  
  
The otherwise empty infirmary was filled with the ragged, muffled sounds of choking and gagging. Flesh giving beneath powerful legs, like pythons coiling about their prey. Relishing in the red-hot pain that flared up in his back, between his shoulder blades. When the man started to sag, however, the elf released him and he sank bonelessly to the floor.  
  
“I am _sick_ and _tired_ of disappointment. Do you know how much losing that shipment cost us? Cost me? Enough to get out of this place. More than enough.” Forle spat, not giving his man a single second to recover. He glared out the window again, at one cell block in particular. “What are you thinking, pet?”  
  
“Sir?”  
  
“Very well. Send him a message, then. He wants to play pretend? We’ll show him it’s no game. Come back with good news.”  
  
The man ducked low, trying to appear as non-threatening as possible as he edged back towards the door. “Yes, sir. You can count on us.”


	52. Chapter 52

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Accidentally posted this while trying to edit this morning!!! I’m sorry for the fake out :)
> 
> Warnings for this chapter: Minor character death. But like, really, REALLY minor. Also, Jaskier experiences symptoms of a panic attack, though it’s not mentioned as such.

The next morning, they were once again escorted to their jobs by the sour-faced guard. Though the place didn’t allow breakfast, Tege had winked - he winked _frequently_ \- and told them to stop by in the morning for something special.  
  
Jaskier’s stomach was rumbling - one meal a day simply did _not_ suffice - at the thought of what it could be. Pastries. Hot buns, fresh out the oven. Geralt snorted when he heard the noises emanating from the bard’s belly and, since his job allowed him freedom to roam, padded off to the kitchen to score some food for his mate.  
  
Forced to remain in the laundry room, Jaskier noticed there were white puffs escaping from the crack beneath the door of the steam room, curling up towards the ceiling. He remembered very specifically that they were the ones who shut it down last night, before they were taken back to their cells.  
  
“What is going on _there_? It’s the arse crack of dawn. Do the guards come in and set things up...pre-arse-crack? That’s surprisingly _thoughtful_.” Jaskier was met with a few noncommittal murmurs. His compatriots didn’t seem too concerned, and he decided he wasn’t either - with a shrug and a mischievous little look on his face, he approached Drozdor. “How long before one hallucinates in there, exactly? More specifically - if I pop in for a quick morning steam, will I come out seeing rainbows and stars again?”  
  
The man snorted, shaking his head with a toothy grin. He wasn’t tall or particularly beefy, roughly the same height and build as the bard. Had a pleasant smile, too, despite all the burns and branded scars. It lit up his rugged face. Jaskier decided he liked his unofficial first mate.  
  
Guilt nagged at the back of his mind, though, as he remembered their blossoming friendship had been born from a lie. A lie that could very easily be undone, by any scenario where Jaskier had to wield a sword or do any sort of fighting.  
  
“Ah, no. It’s the long stretches that go right to your head, make you loopy as all hell.” He thought for a moment, calculating something. Jaskier vaguely wondered how long he’d been in the prison to have such vast knowledge. “Give you about twenty minutes before you start losing brain cells and seeing the really weird shite.”  
  
“Good, good.” Satisfied, Jaskier tilted his head towards the main doors of the laundry room. “When Geralt gets back, will you tell him where I am?”  
  
“On it, boss.”  
  
Humming softly to himself, Jaskier popped the steam room door open and slipped in, closing it behind him. It was much thicker than it had been yesterday, and he found he could hardly see a thing.  
  
Actually, it was somewhat difficult to breathe. There was also a strange smell, like metal. Subtle notes of something more putrid and familiar in a way that he couldn’t quite place. He coughed and cracked the door to let it air out a bit.  
  
“I take it all back, not thoughtful at all. They have completely botched it.” Jaskier chattered to himself, fumbling around through opaque, white clouds to locate the stones and see why they were churning out a literal _miasma_. “Honestly, how hard could it be? Heat the stones. Throw in some...chemical-treated _water_ , or something. Voila. Normal amounts of _steam_.”  
  
As he moved towards the other side of the small room, a wooden beam creaked overhead and something brushed the top of his shoulder. He cringed and ducked, knowing full well that they hung underclothes as well as overclothes and not wanting to make any sort of contact with either.  
  
Thankfully, the steam was starting to clear. He’d made it to the opposite side, was finally able to distinguish the shape of the basin where the stones were kept.  
  
Odd. They were pumping steam normally, but it was as though water had _just_ been applied to them. It also seemed like the vents were blocked off, though he had absolutely no idea where to begin searching for those.  
  
The water bucket and a vial of cleaning fluid were overturned. There were also a few dark streaks on the ground. On the walls, too. Looked like grease, maybe paint...if that was what he was inhaling, he’d seriously have to reconsider his new morning routine.  
  
Jaskier squinted, nearly jumping out of his skin when the beam creaked again behind him. The same one, in the same spot. For some reason it had him feeling very uncomfortable, like he was being _watched_. He slowly turned around and could vaguely make out a large, dark shape swinging from where it hung at the center of the room.  
  
It looked like an overcoat. No, too big. A very long pair of pants? For a very long...person? Maybe a guard with extremely long legs, self-conscious about the length of his breeches, decided to come in early and do his laundry himself.  
  
Shaking his head, he muttered, “that is a _ridiculous_ scenario and you know it, Jaskier.” As he went to take a step closer, the steam dissipated in just the right spot and he froze. Wide, horrified eyes settled on a gleaming, bloodied bald spot.  
  
Equally wide, watery eyes returned his gaze with a blank, though somewhat pleading stare of their own.  
  
Instantly, he shrieked and staggered back, nearly tripping over the bucket. It clattered noisily beneath his feet. He heard several boots thudding towards him as the rest of the laundrymen hurried into the room, alerted by his cries.  
  
He couldn’t comprehend what they were saying, shied away from the hands reaching out to him - everything was fuzzy and there was a piercing ringing in his ears, as though a bomb had just gone off next to his head. It was suddenly _very_ hard to breathe.  
  
The thick steam moving lazily about the hanging figure occasionally offered brutal glimpses of mottled bruises, sliced skin, missing fingernails. He did not die well, or quickly. Tortured. Strung up like a garland.  
  
In blood, on the wall, something had been hastily scrawled. Condensation made the liquid run, pinkish red trickling eerily to the floor, but he could just barely make out the words, which included his given name - ‘ _for Julian_.’ A tiny, poorly-drawn flower in place of a dot above the ‘i.’  
  
A macabre message. For _him_. Immediately, he put the pieces together. This was revenge. For burning the fisstech? Sticking his nose where it didn’t belong?  
  
This was not what Jaskier wanted, he didn’t think something like this would - maybe that was the problem, he rarely thought things _through_ -  
  
He lurched to the side, fingers digging into the bench for support, and heard the wet splatter of his own sick splashing against wood panels. Bile stung his throat and nostrils on its way up. A hand was on his back as he heaved.  
  
After, as if on autopilot, he dragged himself to his feet and practically barreled over whoever was blocking the door in his attempts to escape the confined, oppressive space.  
  
He could still hear the ominous creak of thick, gnarled rope - the telltale groan of wood beams as they bore the weight of a body - even after he’d put a fair distance between himself and that horror show. Could still see his own name written in blood - how had they known his name? - dripping, oozing, branded into his memory.  
  
He spilled out into the courtyard in a frenzied flurry, lungs screaming for fresh air; he could hear the familiarly rich timbre of Geralt’s voice, now - barking after him and telling him to get back, that it wasn’t safe, but his legs were moving without permission and he just kept running.  
  
By the time he reached the herb garden, the ringing had faded slightly and he sagged against the concrete outer wall of the kitchen, trying and failing to catch his breath.  
  
Geralt was there in an instant, always so quick to react, standing before him with a grave look on his face. A large hand reached out to touch him but he flinched and it remained suspended in midair, hovering inches away from his shoulder.  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
Geralt took a tentative step closer - Jaskier was hanging his head, chin resting on his chest as he focused on a small dandelion peeking out from under his boot, that he’d trampled in his mad dash to get out. Outside of that crushed flower, the rest of the world felt very far away.  
  
The Witcher slouched a bit in an attempt to meet his gaze. He could hear the erratic sounds of a rapidfire pulse, like a rabbit that knew it had been caught out by a hunter.  
  
“Jaskier, look at me. It’s not your fau - ”  
  
The bard’s head shot up, and he rounded angrily on Geralt. “How can you say that? It is _absolutely_ my fault - did you _see_ what was written on the wall? Someone tortured and - and _killed_ him because of my stupid - ”  
  
“No.” Geralt firmly shook his head, mouth forming a tight line. “You’re not responsible for the actions of others. You’re only responsible for your own.”  
  
Jaskier barked a wry, humorless laugh, now clutching his chest in an attempt to regain control of his breathing. “Causality, Geralt.”  
  
“Perhaps.” The Witcher dropped his hand, deciding to try another tactic. He shifted until he was leaning against the wall beside Jaskier, their shoulders touching. The pulse slowed fractionally. “So we played with fire and got burned. You still didn’t kill that man. Whoever did this took it there, not you.”  
  
“If only it were that simple.” Jaskier hated how his heart was still pounding, blood rushing in his ears. He couldn’t stop those sharp inhales, like there was no air around him, and they burned the raw interior of his throat. “What have I gotten us into? And - and the others?”  
  
Geralt sighed, dropping his head back and gazing up at the early-morning sky. His ears were still at attention, listening for every rise and fall, every stutter and stop, in Jaskier’s body.  
  
“I have a feeling things here would have boiled over, with or without our intervention. As I said before, think of how quickly all this escalated. You mentioned Thas bribed a guard?”  
  
“Yeah? Big old bribe.” On a harsh exhale, Jaskier huffed, sounding annoyed. “What does that have to do with - ”  
  
“Those drugs - the crates would have been searched before they were brought in. And there’s no way whoever murdered that man could have gotten out of their cell without outside help. Right?”  
  
“The _point_ , Geralt. It feels like my head is going to - ”  
  
“There was corruption here, long before we came along. Us being in the middle - it’s nobody’s fault. Certainly not yours. What have you done, really, besides threaten to expose it?”  
  
“I haven’t, though. Not on purpose, anyway.”  
  
“They don’t know that.”  
  
It was then that Jaskier noticed his breathing had evened out considerably since the start of the conversation. The painful, clenched feeling in his chest was subsiding, and the garden had stopped spinning and slanting.  
  
Leave it to Geralt to talk him down without the bard even realizing. That wonderfully gruff, steady voice, calm and unwavering. The warmth of his shoulder brushing against Jaskier’s, subtly letting him know he was there.  
  
“I see what you’ve done - and here I thought _I_ was the one with the silver tongue.” Jaskier swayed his body to the side until his hip playfully bumped against Geralt’s.  
  
“Silver tongue, my ass.” Geralt glanced down at him. “Specifically for you, maybe. Your heartrate steadies when I talk.”  
  
The bard nearly fell over, was itching to make a _thousand_ jokes about that phrasing - really, was the man _aware_ of how many accidental innuendos he averaged on a daily basis? - but the painfully fresh memory of what had brought them there immediately erased any and all thoughts on the matter.  
  
“So, what do we do now? It had to have been a message from Forle, or one of his men. How else could they have known my given name? It’s not as if I go shouting it out...” Jaskier thought back to all the times he had done just that, and added, “ _often_.”  
  
Geralt scowled. He’d already come to that conclusion, hated the idea of Forle, or any of his cohorts, knowing something so intimate about his bard - using it to cruelly torment him.  
  
As for what to do, from the very moment he heard Jaskier cry out, dropped everything and ran to that infernal steam room, he’d been silently strategizing.  
  
Keeping Jaskier safe was tantamount and a difficult enough task on its own. And now there were several more variables; the rapidly growing group of men whose safety Jaskier clearly felt responsible for, for starters. Leaving them to become fodder for Forle’s wrath wasn’t an option.  
  
“We’re in too deep. Knowing Forle, it will happen again.” He frowned at a wilting bushel of sage. “Safety is our priority. Most vulnerable at night, locked in our cells. We can’t show any weakness - ”  
  
“ - does screaming, vomiting, and high-tailing it out of there count as weakness? - ”  
  
“ - and there’s strength in numbers. More people on our side. Enough, at least, to discourage more attacks. They’re not likely to succeed with twenty or thirty-something inmates shouting, attracting attention.”  
  
“Strength in numbers. Got it. You’re really embracing this whole gang thing, aren’t you? I’m - ” Jaskier’s teasing stopped abruptly as he heard some sort of commotion in the courtyard - the sound of angry, distant shouting. He immediately thought the worst. “Fuck, Geralt, what _now_?”  
  
The Witcher pushed himself off the wall, ears perking. He brought a finger to Jaskier’s lips, making him go cross-eyed as he shushed him.  
  
“The guards found the body. About to do a head count in the laundry room.” He groaned. “Not a fucking moment to breathe in this place. Let’s go, before they find you missing.” 

♜ ♖

As soon as they made it back, the guards forced them to join the rest of the laundrymen up against the wall. They held the prisoners there at spear-point while they went about taking down the body.  
  
“Two deaths in two days. What do you fuckers think this is, a free-for-all? And who the fuck’s ‘Julian?’” It was the head guard who had questioned them about Thas, and he sounded just as done with the place as he had the day before. He turned to one of his men, who had been scanning a piece of parchment and calling out names. “How’s the head count coming? Is there a Julian on the list?”  
  
The list-wielding man nodded. “Everyone’s here, sir.” And paused. “Aside from the...you know, the _body_. Though I guess he is still _technically_ here, in the literal sense of the word. But his spirit isn’t, so that’s - ”  
  
“If the next sentence out of your mouth isn’t an answer to my second _fucking_ question - ”  
  
“S-sorry, sir. Um, no. No one named Julian.” Jaskier let out a relieved breath, because he’d been delirious from blood loss when they booked him and he could not, for the life of him, remember if he’d given his birth name. Seemed he hadn’t. “Only one sticks out is, uh...him. The fellow from Rivia. He’s supposed to be working in the courtyard.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes as the attention of everyone in the room fell on him. “Heard shouting, came to check it out. That a fucking crime?”  
  
“No, but murder is.” Steely eyes narrowed as the head guard sized the Witcher up. “Weren’t you here yesterday, too? When that lout ‘tripped?’ Awfully convenient, if you ask me.”  
  
“Is it convenience?” Geralt deadpanned, refusing to give him an inch. He was used to the arrogance of men like this, who enjoyed carelessly throwing around what little power they held. “Seems more like negligence. Nobody noticed I was gone.”  
  
“Right - _Rivia_. Now I remember where I’ve heard your name, in those gods-awful ballads by that flouncy fraud. You’re the White Wolf.” He nodded at Geralt’s silvery hair and one of the larger scars that Jaskier had written a fairly popular song about, plainly visible from where it peeked out from under his partially-unbuttoned top. On the sidelines, the ‘flouncy fraud’ himself had to hold his breath to keep his indignation at bay, nearly passing out in the process. “You don’t have me fooled. Always be wary of Witchers, my father used to say. Don’t trust a word out of their mouths.”  
  
The Witcher bared his teeth in a false, dangerous smile. “Sounds like a real charmer.”  
  
Ignoring that, the head guard began languidly pacing back and forth, hands positioned behind his back. His entire countenance had changed once he realized who and what Geralt was. The newfound malice he displayed unnerved Jaskier, as it felt like the whole situation was turning into some sort of impromptu interrogation.  
  
“They’re monsters with human faces, he told me.”  
  
“Did he, now?”  
  
“Yes.” A greasy smile. “Cursed beings.”  
  
“News to me.”  
  
“So vile, in fact, that their right to reproduce was stripped by the gods. Like neutering a rabid, rutting - ”  
  
“Shut up, just - shut _up_!” Jaskier exclaimed suddenly, interrupting the intense exchange. His unprecedented outburst had several guards and inmates jolting to attention. Even Geralt turned his head in surprise.  
  
The bard didn’t care. He was uncharacteristically livid, the force of the emotion coloring his face bright red, and it had nothing to do with the earlier slight to him and his music. “That’s completely irrational! You absolute - you have _no_ right, and - and - what exactly are you implying? That based on your father’s weird and _entirely_ false postulations, Geralt was responsible for the murder? It happened last _night_ , and we were - ”  
  
“Oh?” That judgemental gaze zeroed in on Jaskier. “And how would _you_ know when it happened?”  
  
“It’s five o’clock in the _fucking_ morning, you arse. The guards only _just_ let us out - ”  
  
“Hold your tongue! Or do you wish to be gagged and thrown in solitary until the day you hang?”  
  
“ - and that man has clearly been dead for _hours_. Now tell me, how is _he_ meant to have gotten out of his cell during that time?” He gestured emphatically at Geralt, whose golden eyes were unreadable, though they never left Jaskier as he spoke out in his defense. “You think he - _what_? Slipped through the bars - with _those_ shoulders? Give me a bloody break. If anything, you should be questioning _your_ people. Isn’t it strange that no one saw what happened? Someone was taken from their cell and brutally - ”  
  
“That’s _enough_! You dare accuse someone under _my_ employ of this heinous act?” The man was seething, had stormed towards Jaskier - whose rant had reached a fever-pitch, was spilling out faster than he could control - and jabbed a finger into his chest. “You know what? Forget solitary. Soon as the doctor gets here and takes a look at the body, tells me what I need to know, it’s straight to the gallows for the lot of you. Guilt by association.”  
  
Jaskier bristled, not backing down - as he started raising his hand, readying himself to deliver another scathing lecture, the Witcher discreetly caught his wrist and gave it a gentle squeeze.  
  
Grudgingly, he kept his mouth shut.  
  
From there, after a bit of tense, awkward waiting, the body was examined and removed. The infirmary’s doctor had been brought in, and she confirmed that the man died sometime in the middle of the night. That effectively, _temporarily_ cleared their names, though their cell doors were still being checked for any signs of tampering.  
  
After that, the head guard stormed off, red-faced and humiliated by the fact that Jaskier had been right, had made him look a fool. He didn’t leave before commanding Geralt to resume his job in the courtyard, however, and letting him know there was a noose with his name on it.  
  
Before the Witcher left, after most of the guards had cleared out, he wordlessly pulled Jaskier to a shadowed corner. The motion was rough, and his face was dark - when the bard opened his mouth to ask what was wrong, Geralt kissed him. Fervently. Urgently. Calloused hands clasped either side of his face, securing him in place, pads of hardened skin tickling where they brushed his cheek.  
  
It didn’t last long - they didn’t have much time - but when Geralt broke the kiss and drew back, Jaskier found he was out of breath.  
  
“Well, well.” A small, cheeky grin, face flushed from exertion. “What was that for? Not a complaint, by any means, I just - ”  
  
“You shouldn’t have done that.” Geralt murmured, tender gaze slowly moving up from Jaskier’s lips to his eyes. The corner of his mouth quirked in amusement when he noticed how dilated the bard’s pupils were.  
  
“Oh, piss. What have I done now?”  
  
“Before. The guard, when he brought up...” His prominent jawbone shifted beneath taut skin as he silently amended his first, cryptic statement, saying the new version more insistently. “You didn’t have to do that.”  
  
Jaskier, having learned the subtle nuances of Geralt’s particular brand of communication long ago, realized what he was talking about and frowned. When he spoke, the usually playful lilt of his voice was replaced by a far more serious tone.  
  
“Yes, Geralt. I did.”  
  
That - the way he said it so confidently, leaving no room for argument - only resulted in the Witcher wanting to kiss him again. And again. And then follow that up with much, much more. Neither was pleased about being locked up but now, he found himself fully resenting it. He made a silent note to search the grounds for somewhere private.  
  
The last guard trickling out - it just so happened to be their personal waker-upper - shouted for Geralt. He groaned, eyes darkening at the intrusion. As if reading his mind, Jaskier let out a petulant whine, a single finger surreptitiously toying with the buckle of Geralt’s belt.  
  
“This is absolute _torture_ , Geralt - ”  
  
“I know. Fucking prison.” A labored sigh as he tried shifting gears, tried to distract himself from the way the bard’s lips were swelling slightly from their kiss. “If anything happens - anything at all - call for me. I’m always listening.”  
  
“Oh. _Good_.” Jaskier thought about that, made a face. “Just so you know, that’s not as comforting a sentiment as you might think.”  
  
Geralt raised a single, silver brow. “No?”  
  
“Well, now that I know you’re,” he deepened his voice in a very accurate imitation of Geralt’s, “‘always listening,’ my only thought is of you _listening_ to the graphic, amplified vocals of me puking my guts out earlier. Honestly, this - this is going to _haunt_ me, Geralt.”  
  
Geralt snorted, ignoring the guard as she called his name again, louder this time - he wasn’t yet ready to tear his hands away from where they’d settled on the bard’s backside.  
  
“We’ll regroup at supper. Need to figure this out before nightfall. Don’t mention anything to the others just yet.”  
  
“Right. Okay. Um, Geralt? Our little armored ball of sunshine sounds pissed, as usual. You should probably - ” Jaskier was cut off as Geralt pulled him in, kissing him again. He laughed into it, continued speaking around the other’s lips. “ - _go_ , you scamp. Before she sends the dogs after you.”  
  
Reluctantly, Geralt obeyed. After he’d gone, Jaskier turned to the others - he expected a quiet day of mournful contemplation over their fallen, balding companion. Did _not_ expect to see them rummaging around in the bins where they kept the cleaning rags, producing an impressively extensive variety of shivs.  
  
“Oi! Hey - _hey_ , what’s going on over there? Leave you alone for two _bloody_ seconds.” Jaskier hustled across the room, eyes darting nervously between Drozdor and the weapon in his hand. “Hell- _o_? Uh - what, what are we doing with this collection of...pointy things? Show and tell? I do love a good story - ”  
  
“You standing up to that prick was inspiring, boss. We won’t take this lying down, either.” Paul’s rough voice. He’d come up behind Jaskier, a stony look on his face. “Time to teach those rag-wearin’ twits a lesson.”  
  
“No, no. Nono _no_.” He hurried over to one man and held up his hands, interrupting the beeline he was making for the door. “No lessons. No _teaching_. That’s for rectors and rectoress... _es_? Rectoressi?”  
  
The man looked confused. He was middle-aged, one of the more intimidating members of the bunch. Really, names. How had he not learned them all yet? “I was a rector in my old town, boss. You in need of my services?”  
  
“Really? What the _fuck_ \- ?” Jaskier gave him an absolutely _baffled_ look. “Doesn’t matter. Well, no - definitely tell me _that_ story later. Anyway, I am putting a stop to this - _this_ is not how we solve our problems.”  
  
Paul, from where he was now sharpening one large blade with another, _smaller_ blade, frowned. “But what you said to the - ”  
  
“I know what I said, _Paul_. And frankly, I’m not sure how you got from Point A - ” he raised his right hand, “my _exquisite_ verbal thrashing, to Point B - ” raised his left, “a reckless _stabbing spree_.”  
  
Jaskier had resorted to using his body to block the doors - when he was sure he had their attention and wouldn’t be shoved aside, he dropped his arms. His fingers came up and pinched the bridge of his nose as the laundrymen gathered before him.  
  
“That doesn’t matter, either. Look, I get that _this_ ,” he gestured to one of the more gruesome-looking shivs, “is how things are usually settled here. But do we _really_ want to stoop to their level?”  
  
Drozdor crossed his arms over his chest. “Yes. They killed our man. And Julian - that’s another name you go by, isn’t it? I saw you get all fidgety when the guard asked about it.”  
  
“Yes, but don’t start - you know, I really _prefer_ to be called - ”  
  
“Not why I was askin’. That message was to you, our leader. We can’t allow a threat like that to go unchecked. What if they come for you next, catch you off-guard?”  
  
“That’s _very_ sweet.” Jaskier placed a hand over his heart, looking moved - not correcting the assumption that he was ever _on_ -guard. Upon remembering that they were still talking about _revenge-murder_ , however, he quickly backtracked. “But - _but_ \- hear me out. Rather than dull our expertly-crafted shivs, what say we...not...do... _anything_?”  
  
He said the end of that sentence very slowly, cautiously gauging their reactions - upon hearing the last word, they all started vocalizing varying levels of disagreement. Fuck.  
  
“Yet. There was supposed to be a ‘yet,’ at the end there. Let’s not do anything _yet_.”  
  
The grumbling and rabble-rousing subsided slightly. Better.  
  
Drozdor pursed his lips, looking thoughtful. “You mean, bide our time? Play the long game?”  
  
“Exactly! Well, more like...avoid the actual game, as its currently played, entirely. Play it, but not really. Not by the established - bollocks, now I’ve gone and lost myself in the metaphor.” He shook all thoughts of ‘the game’ from his mind. “But, I mean, you can’t honestly tell me that going out there and knifing the first scoundrel you see sporting a maroon rag is the best way to ‘check’ a threat. There are other, better - _safer_ options. Right?”  
  
“S’pose that makes sense. What did you have in mind?”  
  
“As we are now, we don’t stand a chance. We need - ugh, more people?” Geralt was going to kill him, for sure this time, but he needed to slap a bandage on the situation before it bled out all over the place. Literally _and_ figuratively. “Strength in numbers, and all that.”  
  
Paul still seemed to be grappling with the fact that they weren’t going to be doing any killing. “So you’re saying...no stabbing?”  
  
“I am saying _precisely_ that, _Paul_ \- ”  
  
“He’s saying we should turn the other cheek.” A skinny man, gesturing to Jaskier with his weapon. The bard retracted, his back bumping against closed doors. “Sit around, pickin’ our noses while those bastards take us out, one by one.”  
  
“Okay - ew, _no_ , that’s not at all - ”  
  
“Why are we even _listening_ to - ”  
  
“Watch yourself, Kirt.” Thank the gods for Drozdor, who swiftly stepped between them. “He knows what we’re up against. Suggesting we act smart, get more on our side. I tend to agree. If you don’t, you can fuck right off.”  
  
The disgruntled murmuring had resumed, but stopped as soon as Drozdor spoke.  
  
“Let’s take a vote, then.” Kirt, the skinny one, smirked at Jaskier. “All those in favor of obeying our _fierce_ leader and doing jack _shite_ , raise your hands.”  
  
There was a tense moment where nobody moved. Especially Jaskier, who had practically plastered himself to the door, ready to fling it open and flee at a moment’s notice. He had considered raising his own hand for a moment, but then thought better of it.  
  
Slowly, after what felt like an eternity, a few hands raised. Drozdor first, followed by Paul. The supposed ex-rector. Their example had the rest of the bunch following suit, until the only one with both arms at his sides was Kirt.  
  
After a moment, he sighed, hung his head, and raised his hand. “Just want revenge, is all. He was a good friend.”  
  
Jaskier breathed a sigh of relief, visibly deflating as he rested his head back against the door. “And I’m sorry for your loss. All of you. But I’m telling you, we’re in real danger here. This is the right way. We need all the help we can get.”  
  
After that, the group dispersed and started on the laundry. They didn’t stop the discussion there, instead bringing to the table whatever connections they had amassed during their time in the clink. Several of them had friends in other jobs, like the _chamberpot_ folks and the iron workers. Drozdor was apparently sleeping with quite a _few_ female guards, which would doubtlessly prove useful.  
  
With his merry little band of criminals corralled, placated, and no longer out for _blood_ , Jaskier sprawled bodily across one of the benches lining the room, drained from the effort. Crisis... _sort of_ averted.


	53. Chapter 53

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Playing through the Witcher and cannot get drunk ass Geralt saying “hocus pocus, abracadabra, arse blathanna” out of my fuckin head send help
> 
> Also, as a warning ~ the boys get it on in this one, ayy! I don’t write sex scenes often so it’s not graphic, but shit doth go down next chapter and I thought they deserved a lil schmoozin

By nightfall, Jaskier felt far more secure in his position as phony gang boss. It helped that slowly, throughout the day, new allies and ‘friends’ trickled in to meet him and pledge their loyalty.  
  
He was afraid that he’d say something to mess it all up, but things actually went quite smoothly. Though, to be fair, he wasn’t _very_ keen on shaking the hand of the self-proclaimed leader of the chamberpot crew. Nevertheless, he put on a brave face and forced himself to go through with it (aggressively scrubbing his hands after, of course).  
  
And sure, things looked a bit grim when he met Oren, head of the iron workers - whose name he only really remembered because he’d repeatedly, accidentally, called him ‘Iron.’  
  
But all in all, by the time he wandered out and found Geralt - standing between two inmates fighting over a _spoon_ \- he felt ten times safer, like there was a sizable cushion of camaraderie separating him, his lover, and his growing gaggle of gangsters from the monster lurking in the prison infirmary.  
  
Everything changed when the guards came to escort them to their cells. As he and Geralt were led down the hall, they passed their shared cell. They were at the end of the block, the last of the group to be locked in. As they walked by, Jaskier noticed the door had been pried off, leaving a small, open cubicle.  
  
The Witcher stopped dead in his tracks as they exited the building, heading towards the last block. He turned back to the guard.  
  
“Where the fuck are you taking us?”  
  
“Keep walking, inmate.”  
  
Crossed his arms over his chest, eyeing the spear that had been drawn with blatant disinterest. “No. I want answers, now. Where’s our door? Where are we going?”  
  
Jaskier glanced nervously between them. It was ridiculous, how any sense of safety in this place could be stolen away in the blink of an eye. He silently cursed the arch duke, who was seemingly in some sort of _coma_ , for being the reason behind their prolonged stay.  
  
Granted, it had only been two days, but somehow even that felt like a lifetime in this fucked little prison bubble.  
  
“The balls on this one. Your door was taken for inspection, having to do with the murder this morning.” The guard eyed them both before producing a list from her pocket. “You’re staying in a different block tonight.”  
  
Geralt’s eyes narrowed. “Together?”  
  
A finger ran down the list, paused at a name. “Separate.”  
  
“Not a fucking chance.”  
  
She let out a labored sigh. “Like you have a choice in the matter? Prison’s full up. Now get your arses in gear and start walking before I decide to throw you in the hole.”  
  
“Honestly, that sounds better than sleeping with a bloody _stranger_ \- oi! Okay, okay!” Jaskier raised his hands as she leveled her spear at him. “I’m moving, I’m _moving_. Put that thing _down_.”  
  
They reached Geralt’s new cell first. The last block was more dimly-lit than their previous residence, but Jaskier could make out the shape of a burly fellow crouched low in the corner.  
  
The man stood and pressed his back against the far wall upon the guard’s barked orders. She unlocked the door, nudging a resentful Geralt inside. Before it was closed behind him, he turned to the bard.  
  
“It’s going to be all right, Jaskier.” Soft, golden eyes met his. “Stand your ground, but don’t needlessly antagonize. If you - ”  
  
The guard slammed the door in his face, scowling at him. As they made to leave, Geralt’s new roommate shifted and stepped into a small patch of torchlight.  
  
Wrapped about his chiseled bicep was a worn, tattered rag.  
  
The sight of it filled Jaskier with panic and, in a frenzy, he flung himself at the cell door, tightly gripping the bars.  
  
“Geralt - he’s one of them!” The guard grabbed the back of his shirt, trying to pull him back, but he stubbornly held on, glaring at the stranger lurking so dangerously close to his lover. The man returned his heated gaze with a toothless grin. “I swear to the gods, if there’s a single bloody scratch on him in the morning, I will - ”  
  
She interrupted his threat - he hadn’t really known where he was going with it, anyway - by prying him off the bars, tossing him to the side. Roughly kicking him back when he tried scrambling past her. He caught himself on the wall, giving Geralt one last, desperate look before she dragged him away. 

♜ ♖

By morning, Jaskier was a nervous wreck. His new cell mate had ended up being someone he recognized from the kitchens. An ally. They’d talked for awhile before the man turned in for the night, but Jaskier remained seated, cross-legged, in front of the door.  
  
Watching, waiting, listening until the sun came up. This block was just as a noisy at night as the other one, inmates talking and shouting to each other. Banging on their doors, arguing amongst themselves.  
  
Each sound filled him with dread - every thump, every cry, every _thing_ \- had him thinking it might be Geralt. Geralt, who was alone in a small, cramped space with one of Forle’s men. Geralt, who could handle himself in any fight but certainly wasn’t _invincible_.  
  
Around five, when a guard came to fetch them, Jaskier’s head was resting against the wall. Still inches from the door. His eyes were bloodshot, dark circles making their electric blue color stand out. Couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t think of anything other than all the possible scenarios in which Geralt could be overpowered by the man, could be injured or worse.  
  
He shot to his feet when he heard the key slide into the lock. Pleading gaze fixed upon the impassive face of the guard.  
  
“Is Geralt - have you seen - ”  
  
“Shut up, inmate. No jobs today. Straight to the courtyard with the others.”  
  
“Just - please, _tell_ me...wait, what?” Fear coiled in the pit of his stomach. “Why? Did something happen?”  
  
“It’s Sunday, you moron. No work on Sunday. You’ve got freedom to roam the grounds, but don’t let it go to your head. Still a fucking criminal, and if you step out of line you’ll be treated as such.”  
  
Oh. That settled him a little bit, and as he was shuffled out of his cell and flung into the mass of prisoners being released for their free day, he searched the sea of faces for Geralt’s.  
  
Nowhere to be found. As he passed by the Witcher’s cell he peered in - one of the bedrolls had been ripped to shreds. Chamberpot overturned. Dark, implicating stains colored the stone walls.  
  
No, no, no.  
  
Panic filled him and he sprinted to the courtyard, panting by the time he got outside.  
  
“Geralt?” He spun around, nearly crashed into another inmate as he wildly scanned the open space for that telltale head of white hair, those warm, gold eyes. “ _Geralt_!”  
  
When he thought he might lose his mind with worry, a gentle hand rested on his shoulder.  
  
“Jaskier.” The gruff voice by his ear was amused, but weary. “You’re making a scene.”  
  
The bard could have cried at the sound of it, whirling around and immediately flinging his arms around the other man - pausing when Geralt released a pained grunt.  
  
“Geralt, are you...” Jaskier’s voice died in his throat. The man looked terrible, nasty cuts everywhere. One above his left brow, fresh blood trickling into his eye. “Gods, you’re hurt! What happened? What - ”  
  
“’m fine.” The Witcher smirked, his hand grasping Jaskier’s elbow to keep him at bay, keep him from aggravating the wounds hidden beneath his clothes. “Should see the other guy.”  
  
Additionally, Geralt looked exhausted. He clearly hadn’t slept either, and the thought of him spending the night fighting for his life in that infernally small cell had Jaskier’s gut twisting uncomfortably.  
  
He rested a hand on Geralt’s cheek, mindful of a bloodied scratch along his jaw. When he spoke, he forced his voice to remain steady.  
  
“Come on, let’s patch you up. They keep every work building stocked with medical supplies, in case of injury.” He frowned at a red splotch coloring the beige sleeve of Geralt’s shirt. “ _Injuries_.”  
  
Too tired to argue, to remind Jaskier that he’d heal on his own in time, Geralt followed him out of the courtyard. They entered the empty laundry room, turned a corner and trudged down a long hall until they came upon a door in the very back.  
  
Jaskier opened it to reveal a small room. Its decor was quite scarce, consisted only of a low, wooden table at the center, a chair in the corner, and several fully-stocked shelves lining the walls.  
  
“Cut my finger yesterday on a stupid washboard. Paul brought me back here, put something on it so I wouldn’t get an infection.” Jaskier was speaking to fill the silence, casting wary glances over his shoulder at Geralt as he did. “Sit, uh...” he glanced around, before tapping the table, “here.”  
  
Geralt obliged as Jaskier flitted about the room, gathering a few potions and a random assortment of ointments in his arms. He looked stressed. Frazzled.  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
The bard set them down on the table beside Geralt before hurrying to a shelf on the far side of the wall.  
  
“Where are the _bloody_ bandages - ”  
  
“Jask - ”  
  
“Wait here, I’ll find go find some - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_. It’s fine. Not necessary. I’m already - ”  
  
“ _No_.” Blue eyes fixed him with a serious look. “Please. Let me do this, okay? I need to - I need to do _something_ , I can’t just...not with you looking like _that_.”  
  
Geralt realized he was scared. Had probably stayed up all night worrying, feeling helpless. The dark circles, puffy eyes...  
  
With a sigh, he nodded. Jaskier squeezed his hand before hurrying out of the room.  
  
The bard came back about fifteen minutes later with an armful of bandages and wads of cotton. Geralt snorted at the sheer volume of supplies he’d scored.  
  
“How the fuck did you manage that?”  
  
“The kitchen.” With a mischievous little grin, Jaskier emptied the contents of his arms on the table. Shuffled over to close and lock the door before situating himself in a standing position between Geralt’s legs. He soaked a ball of cotton in alcohol, started gently cleaning the battered man up. “Tege mentioned an inmate was brought into the infirmary this morning.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“One of Forle’s men. A massive chunk out of his neck, bleeding all over the place. From a bite wound, apparently.”  
  
“Sounds familiar.”  
  
Flashes of the night before. A thick, muscular arm wrapped about his throat from behind - he’d stomped down on the man’s foot, breaking several toes. Whirled around and _chomp_ -  
  
Jaskier paused, hand hovering over Geralt’s jaw, and frowned. “I resent the fact that they saw fit to bring him in while _I_ was forced to rot in my cell with a pulsing side wound.”  
  
“Yeah. That...”  
  
The sentence trailed off, lost to the thick silence that had settled in the room. Jaskier jutted his lower lip out in a pout.  
  
“It feels like you’re not really _listening_ to me right now.”  
  
Geralt was clearly distracted, watching him closely as he started dabbing at a particularly nasty cut on his forehead. His nostrils flared every so often and after a moment, Jaskier realized what exactly was happening.  
  
His cheeks burned, and the reaction only intensified as one of the Witcher’s mighty legs hooked him by the waist and drew him in until he bumped up against the table.  
  
“Geralt, are you smelling me?”  
  
“Can’t help it.” Another sniff. “You smell good.”  
  
“We’re in _prison_ , Geralt. The closest thing to a bath I’ve had since we arrived was a bucket of cold water dumped on my head. I smell like a horse’s _arse_ \- ”  
  
“No.” Geralt shifted closer, inhaling once he’d gotten about an inch from his neck. Laundry soap. A bit of sweat, mixed with something uniquely Jaskier - delicate but earthy, almost floral. “Good. Better than good.”  
  
The bard swallowed thickly as Geralt nuzzled a spot just below his ear. “Um, it’s just that it’s _very_ hard for me to focus when you - I really should finish _cleaning_ these - ”  
  
“No.” He repeated, removing the small ball of bloodied cotton from Jaskier’s hand and letting it drop to the floor. “I want you. Here, on this shitty table.”  
  
“Gods, no _fair_! You know I love it when you act all sexy with your one-word answers. I want you, too, Geralt. Very, very badly. But you’re hurt, and - a - _ah_!” The Witcher’s other hand had wandered lower, much lower, until it was cupping him over his trousers. “Fuck, okay, that’s a - that’s a solid argument, there. Fine, you’ve convinced me, you - ”  
  
Geralt crashed their lips together, swallowing whatever ridiculous name the bard was about to conjure up, moving just as urgently as he had the day before. Jaskier hastily struggled to remove both of their shirts without breaking the kiss - a daring feat, to be sure, but once it was done Geralt unhooked his leg and slipped off the table. The action had their hips grinding together, eliciting a soft, breathy moan from the bard.  
  
In one easy movement, he switched their positions and lifted Jaskier until he was the one seated on the rickety piece of furniture. Large, capable hands made quick work of his belt, swiftly slipped off his pants.  
  
“Geralt, maybe we should slow down - you’re still _bleeding_ \- ”  
  
Jaskier cut himself off with a gasp, arching his back as rough fingers wrapped around the length of him with an exquisite, gentle-yet-firm grip. They remained still for a moment before starting to move, languidly, up and down.  
  
The lack of action over the last few weeks - along with the tension, the build-up - had the bard doubting how long he would last. He also knew Geralt got vicious enjoyment out of any sort of foreplay.  
  
“Okay, I take it back. Don’t slow down. If anything, hurry up. You know, th-though I’ve learned the long game is all well and good, I’m going to need you to move a bit faster and _fuck_ me, Geralt, before I - ”  
  
“Sh.” Geralt’s lips curved at the other’s filthy mouth. “Patience, Jaskier.”  
  
The motions continued, slow and steady - Geralt watched Jaskier’s face carefully, drinking up every second of his flustered expression: slightly parted lips, shallow breathing, blue eyes alternating between wide and half-lidded.  
  
The bard shuddered at the hunger and intensity in the other’s gaze. When he thought he might melt into a puddle of _goo_ in his hands, Geralt finally released him and tore his eyes away, glanced at a shelf above Jaskier’s head.  
  
“What are you _doing_ , Geralt?” The bard whined at the loss of contact, squirming his hips and scooting down until his pelvis met the other’s. Still annoyingly clothed, though the action elicited a delectable grunt as he brushed against the very large, very hard object straining against the confines of Geralt’s pants. “You can’t just _stop_ \- ”  
  
“Don’t want to hurt you. Need to prepare.” Geralt frowned, narrowed eyes scanning the shelf. “What the fuck should I use?”  
  
“Oh, right. It’s been a minute, hasn’t it? Bollocks.” Bracing himself against the table, the bard craned his neck back and squinted at the vast array of small pots and vials, trying to read their labels upside-down. “Um...no, not that. Gods, _definitely_ not that, either. Not near _my_ orifice, thanks....ah! This one.”  
  
He clumsily reached up, tried edging the little pot off the shelf with his fingers from a terribly awkward angle - Geralt’s hand shot out and caught the thing before it could crack Jaskier in the face.  
  
“Ooh, good catch. A broken nose might have been a mood killer. Though, there was this _one_ time - a noblewoman’s husband walked in on us doing the _deed_ and, well, one thing lead to another. Turned out he was into it, ended up joining in. Anyway, I don’t know _exactly_ how, but at some point, his, uh, _member_ \- ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
“No, no, you’ll get a kick out of this, I _swear_ \- ”  
  
An impatient growl, eyes raking over the bard’s bare chest, his stomach. The warm puff of air as he released a harsh breath had him shivering, small abdominal muscles tensing. Geralt’s gaze traveled further down as Jaskier babbled, following the little trail of soft, dark curls to...  
  
“ - it _bent_! Truly, we’re talking a ninety-degree angle. Had to take him to the town healer, who nearly laughed us out of her tent when we told her the reason behind our visit.”  
  
Geralt’s head had snapped up at the word ‘bent.’ He was unable to hold back a surprised laugh, the sound a deep, pleasant rumble in his chest. Jaskier felt a swell of affection as he watched his lover’s eyes lose a bit of their lustful heat and crinkle in amusement.  
  
“Okay, you got me. That was a good one.”  
  
“And _another_ time, a few years back, I - ”  
  
Groaning, Geralt silenced him once more with a kiss. One hand deftly unscrewed the top off the pot while the other gently eased Jaskier back until he was lying, prone and very much exposed, on the table.  
  
“Sex now. Stories later.”  
  
The deep rasp of his voice had Jaskier’s heart stuttering, nearly stopping in his chest. He nodded a little too quickly, locking his fingers behind the Witcher’s neck as he descended upon him.

♜ ♖

Some time later, a member of the kitchen staff approached the back room carrying a tray of hot tea, two mugs, a pot of honey. He frowned and tried the handle, found it locked.  
  
Within, he heard strangled cries and the muffled sounds of a struggle that had him assuming the worst, instantly rapping on the door with his fist.  
  
“Boss? Is everything okay? What’s going on in there?”  
  
“- fuck, nonono, _wait_ , the - ” Inside, the sound of wood creaking dangerously. Rhythmically. A predatory growl. The inmate frowned, reached into his pocket and drew a small weapon while balancing the tray on his other arm. “ - the table, it’s going to - oh no, if you do that, _I’m_ going to - ”  
  
“ _Fuck_ , Jaskier - ”  
  
Suddenly, something snapped and gave out. This was followed by a low, animalistic sound, a high, keening cry, and an incredibly loud, reverberating crash.  
  
Light, airy laughter bubbled up after a moment, brought with it a string of obscene curses, a deep chuckle.  
  
The man outside the door realized belatedly that Jaskier’s frantic shouts of “no, wait” and the pounding of flesh against wood were _not_ the sounds of his leader being repeatedly struck by a blunt object. Not in the way he’d been imagining, at least.  
  
“Shit. Jaskier, are you all right?”  
  
As he quickly made to leave, to give them privacy, the platter - which had been very precariously positioned on his forearm - got thrown off-kilter as the battered teapot slid to the very edge.  
  
“I’m more than ‘all right,’ but - but the bloody _table_ , Geralt!” More breathless laughter, bodies shifting around. “You broke it, it’s in _pieces_ \- ”  
  
“Me? You’re the one who latched on like a fucking - ”  
  
The playful argument continued and despite his attempts to quietly remedy the problem, maneuver the pot back to the center of the tray, it teetered dangerously for a tense moment before toppling to the floor.  
  
The movements within stopped suddenly at the disruption. “What was that?”  
  
After some shuffling around, Jaskier flung the door open - hair a rumpled mess, face flushed - and peered around the now-empty corridor. He stepped forward, cursing when a small, ceramic shard pricked the pad of his foot.  
  
As his eyes were drawn down to the mess, the shattered teapot and green-tinged water pooling on the floor, he instantly realized what had happened.  
  
“ _Gods_ , Geralt. I forgot I asked someone in the kitchen to bring tea. You know, to soothe your aches. Poor sod,” vivid blue eyes widened, unable to stifle a laugh as he imagined how the whole thing must have sounded - the table breaking, the nonsense he tended to spew in the heat of the moment, “he was probably so _confused_.”  
  
“He’ll live.” The Witcher had slipped on his pants as soon as he heard the commotion outside and was now shirtless, scouring the small room for more viable surfaces - wicked, wolfish eyes settled on the wooden chair in the corner. “Want to see if this holds up any better?”  
  
“Do you really have to ask?” Jaskier grinned eagerly and slammed the door shut. 

♜ ♖

It was early afternoon by the time they decided to rejoin the masses outside. Geralt’s wounds had mostly healed, and Jaskier teased that his “magic hole” had been the cause of it. They were both ravenously hungry but riding on a wonderful high, the kind that only came from a morning of equally ravenous boning.  
  
Cheeks still flushed, shirt and pants somewhat askew, there was a bright smile on Jaskier’s face as they stepped out into the courtyard. He decided that absolutely nothing could dampen his mood - not the lack of sleep, the lack of food, or even the constant, looming threat of death.  
  
He realized, moments later, that he was dead wrong on that account. As his eyes scanned the courtyard, he froze in the doors of the laundry room and Geralt - who had been looking down, securing the buckle of his belt - bumped into his back with an irritated grunt.  
  
“Jaskier, what - ”  
  
A familiar scent wafted up to his nostrils and his whole body immediately tensed, eyes flaring with anger as he followed Jaskier’s terrified, wild-eyed gaze across the bustling, open space of the yard.  
  
On a bench beneath the shade of a large oak tree lounged Forle. He was surrounded by his men, absentmindedly flipping through the pages of an old book that had been situated on his lap.  
  
His remaining hand was cuffed in dimeritium - the chains connecting it to a second cuff, secured just below the elbow of his other arm, were incredibly long, dragging in the dirt at his feet. Silver-blonde hair had been pulled back into a loose knot, a few stray strands falling into his face as he read.  
  
He had the audacity to look almost harmless, without all the knives and intricate leather armor. Geralt despised it, knew the monster that lurked behind those pristine features and slumped shoulders.  
  
As if sensing their presence - Jaskier’s fear, Geralt’s rage - Forle, not yet looking up, smiled softly. His hand stopped rifling through the book and beckoned for them to come forward with a single finger.  
  
During this, all of the commotion in the courtyard came to a halt. Drozdor and the rest were at one corner, glaring at Forle. There were a few other scattered groups, a few faces the bard recognized from the day before.  
  
“No, thanks!” Jaskier called to Forle, one hand instinctively gripping Geralt’s sleeve. “We’re good over here! Maybe...send a letter, or something?”  
  
“Everyone’s watching.” Geralt ground out through clenched teeth. Jaskier glanced around, realized he was right. All eyes were on them, observing the exchange with bated breath. “He knows we can’t refuse. That it will make you look weak.”  
  
With a whimper, Jaskier nodded - they both grudgingly made their way across the yard, stopping a safe distance away from Forle, who finally looked up.  
  
“Oh, pet. I know that glow. Naughty, naughty.” Clicking his tongue, those unnervingly light eyes flicked to Geralt, who stood at Jaskier’s side. “Hello, Geralt. You’re looking particularly _virile_ today. Dry spell finally over? Have a nice morning of stuffing the bard?”  
  
“Watch it.” Geralt distinctly heard the word ‘bard’ ripple through the crowd that had gathered. “The fuck do you want?”  
  
Jaskier had apparently caught onto the quiet, confused murmurs as well. He made a show of squinting around the open space. “ _Bard_? Where? Point the handsome devil out for me, will you?”  
  
That earned him an eye roll. Forle slammed the book shut, passing it off to one of his men and crossing his legs.  
  
“I’ll cut you a deal. Clear all this nonsense up, here and now.”  
  
“I can’t imagine any deal from you is worth listening to.” Jaskier, sounding impressively brave.  
  
“I forget the shipment you destroyed and leave you and your shoddy band of ingrates alone on one condition - you tell them the truth, what you really are. They’ll probably kill you for it, but that’s hardly my fault, is it?” Forle was now speaking in a calm, hushed voice. Only Jaskier, Geralt, and his own men could hear what he was offering. “Come on. Let’s hear what really happened to Thas. Better yet, let’s hear about how you had to _whore_ yourself to land a single blow on me.”  
  
Geralt bristled, a flash of rage burning through him as Forle blew a kiss, exaggerating the noise of his lips smacking together. In the corner, Drozdor and the others stood and readied themselves, sensing a fight.  
  
“You expect me to just take you at your word? I don’t think so. No deal. And also...” Jaskier, speaking at a normal volume, trailed off and pretended to think on it for a moment. “Oh, yeah. Fuck off.”  
  
That earned him several whooping hollers from the crowd. Geralt frowned, considering the elf’s offer. Not that he trusted Forle as far as he could throw him - granted, he _could_ probably lob him a fair distance if he put his back into it - but the unspoken alternative lurking behind it was unsettling. It also meant that Forle was threatened by Jaskier, the group he was gathering, wanted to force them to disband by exposing the bard...  
  
His internal dissection of the situation ended as soon as he saw Forle’s angular eyes narrow down to slits.  
  
“Have it your way. Guess I’ll just have to show them.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Jaskier scoffed, putting his hands on his hips. “And how on earth do you plan on doing _that_?”  
  
_Fuck_ , Geralt thought, sensing a change in the air. _Too far, you beautiful idiot._  
  
The elf lazily waved his hand. When he spoke, his tone was casual and polite, as though he was requesting a cup of tea.  
  
“Go on, then.” Around him, his men shifted, excited grins twisting their faces. “Kill him for me, please.”  
  
At that, the place exploded with activity. Forle’s words echoed through the courtyard - suspiciously void of guards, perhaps paid off for this particular reason - and the brawl broke out almost instantaneously.  
  
Forle had immediately lunged at Geralt, knowing he’d be the first to run to Jaskier’s aid. From behind, the elf managed to wrap the long, loose chains of his cuffs twice about Geralt’s neck.  
  
“Geralt!”  
  
“Focus on yourself, Jaskier!” Geralt snarled, the words cut off along with his oxygen - irritated, he snapped his head back, cracking Forle in the face. The force of it stunned him momentarily, allowed the Witcher to slip his hands between the chains and his throat before Forle tightened them again. He heard one of his own fingers crack beneath the pressure. “Will - you - fuck - _off_ \- ”  
  
Jaskier’s men were being fielded and distracted by Forle’s, unable to reach their leader as a ridiculously girthy brute stalked towards him. It was the man the elf had passed his book to, and he was suggestively smashing the item with his other hand.  
  
“Um, hello. Look, it’s just - I’m not wearing my...fighting pants today, so maybe - oh, fuck!” Jaskier narrowly dodged as the man dove at him, the book just barely missing his head. He squeaked and tried putting some space between them. “What, you’re going to beat me to death with a _book_? That’s just...actually really ironic, you know, I’ve got a few of my own in the works and - ah!”  
  
Another swing, another lucky miss. From the sidelines, Jaskier heard Drozdor shouting encouragements at him whilst repeatedly punching one of Forle’s skinnier disciples in the face.  
  
What a predicament. The bard’s eyes scanned the space around him, looking for anything to defend himself with. If he got beaten and bloodied by this man in front of his own...not only would it _hurt_ , but he’d likely lose all the support he’d gained. Having the entire prison turn on him, along with facing Forle’s wrath, would certainly lead to a gruesome end.  
  
No time to think. The book-wielding maniac managed to catch him in the jaw, causing him to momentarily see stars - he vaguely felt fingers snake around his neck as the man dropped the book and instead used both hands to lift Jaskier up in the air.  
  
“Jaskier!” Geralt, using the chains about his neck to flip Forle over his back, slamming him down to the ground in a cloud of dust.  
  
Trying to gather himself, Jaskier wriggled in the brute’s grip, clawing at his face and catching him in the eye. The man didn’t flinch, squeezing harder.  
  
“Tiny, tiny little thing. Thinks he can play with the big boys.” He chuckled as Jaskier’s face turned bright red, then purple. “Let your men watch while I rip that tiny head off.”  
  
As the hand fisted in his shirt moved to join the other around his throat, increasing the pressure, Jaskier had an idea. In a last-ditch effort, he placed one boot on the man’s stomach, pushing himself away. Using that momentum, he reared his other leg back and kicked the man as hard he could in the groin.  
  
With a thunderous roar, he released Jaskier, hands instinctively flying to guard the tender spot. The bard fell heavily to the ground, scrambled around in the dusty pavement and grabbed the book. Before his foe could recover, he whacked him upside the head. The man didn’t go down. Hitting him once more, with as much strength as he could muster.  
  
He crumpled, but continued swinging from where he’d fallen to his knees - what was he made of, _steel_? - Jaskier cringed, hopping back a step and readying the book for a third blow.  
  
Suddenly, alarm bells started to go off, blaring noisily over the din that had exploded around him.  
  
Geralt was still wrestling with Forle on the ground - his face, like Jaskier’s before, turning a very strange shade of fuchsia as the elf throttled him.  
  
Jaskier dropped the bloody book as ten - no, twenty, maybe more - guards spilled out into the yard, weapons drawn. They manhandled anyone who was still fighting, dragging them away from each other. One grabbed him before he could run to help Geralt, forced his hands behind his back.  
  
Three others managed to pry Forle and Geralt off of each other. The elf’s ear was bleeding - Geralt was apparently in a _biting_ mood that day.  
  
“Bind them all! Lock them in their fucking cells for the rest of the day! No meals for - oh, you’ve got to be _fucking_ joking.” A familiar voice behind Jaskier. The malice in it sent angry chills running up and down his spine. “It’s you, at the center of it all again? This is the last fucking straw, Witcher.”  
  
The head guard stalked through the crowd of subdued prisoners and struggling guards, his gaze fixed on Geralt as his hands were bound.  
  
Jaskier squirmed as sturdy rope was wound about his own wrists. “He didn’t start this - that slimy bastard did, you should be blaming _him_ \- ”  
  
Not missing a beat, the man whirled around and slapped the bard across the face with the back of a steel-plated hand. Geralt hissed and Jaskier reeled but remained standing, thanks to the guard immobilizing him from behind.   
  
“No, that’s enough from you. Uppity twerp. Put the foul beast in solitary while I figure out what to do with him.”  
  
Geralt’s captors nodded, but before they could escort him away, he yanked his bound arms out of their grip and stormed right towards Forle. More guards ran to try wrestling him back but he easily outmaneuvered them, leering at the elf and snarling a few words. They were low, out of earshot from the rest of the crowd.  
  
“If you try anything,” Geralt spat at his feet, a small pile of bloody saliva. “if you touch a single hair on his head while I’m gone - ”  
  
“I swear I won’t lay a hand on your sweet, sweet piece. What, don’t believe me?” Voice dripping with feigned sincerity, Forle yanked his hand free and etched an ‘x’ across his chest with his pointer finger. “Cross my _heart_ , Geralt. Hope to _die_.”  
  
“You will.” Geralt hissed, jerking against the hands dragging him back one last time before allowing them to cart him away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Low-key forgot Forle had one hand while writing this lmfao I’ve got the quarantine brain


	54. Chapter 54

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just posting this lil teeny tiny guy (a break from those long ass chaps whew) before the holiday. Next update will be normal length, resolving this prison debacle once and for all. It’ll be up Monday night bc I’ve got a date with my pup tomorrow and we’re gonna drink cocktails!!on the beach!!
> 
> Ok, no, of course she can’t have alcohol. As the designated driver she will be drinking water and water only, woof! Have a lovely weekend :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Literally just Geralt tilting tf out for ten minutes straight.

Jaskier was in his cell, standing on the tips of his toes so he could look out the small window. He could see the courtyard - the building Geralt had been taken to was on the opposite side.  
  
All of the prisoners were returned to their cells after the riot. His bunk mate, a man from the kitchens named Torrand, had sustained a stab wound on his leg - Jaskier’s stomach bottomed out at the sight of all the blood and he’d quickly torn a strip of cloth from his shirt with his teeth, wrapping the wound.  
  
With that taken care of, he focused all of his attention on that large, imposing building. Wondered what could be happening to Geralt in there. The head guard was wicked, prejudice making his actions unpredictable, clouding his judgement.  
  
He might have been on Forle’s payroll, anyway. The fact that the elf had been politely escorted to his cell, not dragged and thrown like the rest of the inmates...the fact that all the blame somehow fell on Geralt, that he’d been sent away. To the hole. Far from Jaskier. It all seemed a little too convenient.  
  
“By any chance, do you know what their version of solitary is? What it’s like?” Jaskier asked after a moment, turning to Torrand. He was trying to keep the nervous edge from his voice, failing miserably. “I mean, what goes on in there? Is it just...a cell with no roommate? You know, that’s not really punishment at all. For Geralt, I mean. He doesn’t like most people. I, on the other hand, would go mad within a day.”  
  
The man chuckled. He was laying down on one of the bedrolls, recovering from blood loss. “Can’t say, boss. Got here a few days before you, haven’t seen the place.” He noticed the way the bard anxiously glanced out the window every few seconds, the way he ranted, saying things he didn’t really need to say. “I’ve heard it’s not so bad, though. And your man seems tough enough. Won’t break easy. He’ll be fine.”  
  
Jaskier nodded, though the kind words did nothing to calm his nerves. “This...it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t - ”  
  
He was cut off by the sound of footsteps thundering down the hall. Two guards stopped before their cell, wordlessly unlocking it and flinging the door open.  
  
“What’s going on?” Jaskier instinctively shrank back, noticing the way his roommate sat up, looking wary. “I don’t suppose you’re letting us out on account of our lovely behavior?”  
  
“Just you.” The guard jerked his head towards Jaskier, his companion gesturing for Torrand to get up against the wall. “Right now. Come on.”  
  
“Just me? _Why_?”  
  
“Boss.” Torrand narrowed his eyes, nodding to one of the men. His chest plate was on wrong, as though it had been hastily slipped into by someone not accustomed to wearing armor. “I don’t think they’re part of the guard.”  
  
“Oh, _fu_ \- ”  
  
Before Jaskier could even get the word out, both of the fake guards stormed in and grabbed his arms, dragging him towards the door. When Torrand tried running to his aid, one bashed him in the face with the butt of his spear.  
  
He fell, bleeding from where they’d broken his nose. Jaskier jerked frantically against the arms holding him, eyes wide.  
  
“Torrand! What are you _doing_ \- you can’t just - ”  
  
A punch to the face aggravated the damage that had already been done to his head over the course of the day, had the world swimming dangerously before him. The iron tang of blood filled his mouth. Shit, shit, shit. Who were these men? Where were they taking him?  
  
He wasn’t given a second to consider the possibilities. Without another word, they lugged him away, locking the cell back up behind them.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Solitary ended up being a two foot wide _box_. Four solid walls, no windows. No light. None of the scarce amenities provided in their cell, either. The only comfort was a large handful of hay, scattered across the floor. The guards had roughed him up on the way, popping his shoulder out of its socket when they threw him in, their wicked laughter still bouncing off the walls long after they’d slammed the door and left.  
  
Didn’t bother him. He could give a shit. There was only one thing on his mind as he heard the lock slide into place, and that was Jaskier. With a growl, he’d leveraged himself against the wall, brutally forced the joint back in. Thrown his body against the door after, testing it for any weakness. It didn’t give.  
  
Now, at the center of the space, surrounded by pitch blackness, Geralt sat on his knees. Closed his eyes, quieted his mind. Listened to the shouting in the courtyard outside, a muddled mess of voices. Listened to the building he’d found himself in groan as the wind picked up outside.  
  
He was looking for any cracks in the stone - a breeze whistled through one, a tiny hole in the back wall. He would have been able to break it, but his hands were bound tightly behind his back.  
  
Inching towards it, his eyes slid shut again as he focused harder. Past the iron forge, the bellows, the beating heart of the place - listening instead for his own beating heart, who was currently somewhere on the prison grounds, alone and vulnerable.  
  
Jaskier had taken an armored, backhanded slap to the face. He’d been bleeding from where the sharp edge of steel sliced his cheek.  
  
Geralt breathed in deeply through his nose, trying to track the annoyingly familiar scent of Jaskier’s blood. He needed to know where he was, what he was doing. There was no way he would sit back in this godsforsaken hole without that knowledge.  
  
When that didn’t work, he focused instead on his own scent, imprinted on the bard during their early morning tryst. Normally, he enjoyed the way he could smell himself on the bard long after - now, he was using it just to gauge whether or not his lover still had a fucking pulse.  
  
He thought he caught something, leaned closer to the crack in the wall in an attempt to chase it. Breathed deep, caught wind of his own scent coupled with the cloying smell of fear. Worry. Desperation. There was the blood and, buried beneath it all, _Jaskier_ -  
  
It was gone as fast as it had come, leaving him with nothing but the dank, moist stench of decay that filled the hole he’d been tossed in. He cursed, slamming his head against the wall in frustration, not caring that the action might leave a bruise.  
  
He hated this feeling of helplessness. Forle was loose, out there with _his_ mate and despite his promise not to harm Jaskier, Geralt had smelled the lust and bloodlust pouring off him in waves. The giddy glee as he watched the guards force them apart. Even if they’d been ordered to return the prisoners to their cells for the day, even if a cell should have meant _safety_...there was no telling what the elf was capable of. One minute alone with Jaskier could mean the end of his life. There was no safety here.  
  
Not knowing where the bard was, what was happening to him, was torture.  
  
They should have stayed in that room. Geralt thought back to the fresh memory of Jaskier straddling him on the chair. One particular moment, where he’d wanted to - had felt compelled to - tell the bard that he loved him. Let him know that the sight of him coming undone, pink-faced and panting in his lap, was one of the most beautiful things he’d ever seen.  
  
He hadn’t told Jaskier any of that, though - had simply wrapped his arms about the bard’s back, pulling him in until their bodies were flush against one another, burying himself deeper and sending them both over the edge.  
  
For some reason, the fact that he hadn’t pissed him off. Because why the fuck not? Jaskier deserved to know - needed to know - the effect he had on Geralt.  
  
It was useless to linger like this, but he couldn’t help it. He hadn’t told Jaskier where he saw them next, either. A villa on the coast.  
  
Their future - which he had pictured with presumptuous certainty while driving his hips upwards, making the body in his arms tremble, tearing his own name from soft, pink lips in the form of a sob - was on the line. And he knew exactly who put it there.  
  
“Fuck this.” Geralt hissed to no one in particular. He shifted until he was sitting down, bracing his bound hands on the floor behind him. With the bottom of his boot, he kicked the microsopic hole in the back wall, the proverbial chink in his cell’s armor. “Fuck Forle.” Another kick. “Fuck the arch duke.” A third. “Fuck prison - ”  
  
There was a resounding crack, and a tiny, pinprick-sized beam of sunlight filtered through. It was a start. Encouraged, he continued taking his anger out on solid concrete, enunciating every strike with a curse. If he could destroy this wall, free himself...  
  
Even if it hurt him, even if he broke his foot in the process - he didn’t care. He’d had enough. He was going to get the fuck out, kick Forle’s fucking teeth in, and tell Jaskier exactly how he felt before whisking them both far, far away to the coast. Away from this living nightmare.


	55. Chapter 55

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohh mannn my quarantine sanctuary has been breached, rona confirmed. 14 days, sheeeit. Turns out I’m mostly asymptomatic, but my poor roomie is pretty sick °□° stay safe everyone!!!!!
> 
> Anyway, warnings for this chapter include noncon elements and forced drug use, though it’s more like a fucked poison. The whole update is kind of a hotbed, so please take care while reading <3

“Unhand me, you _beast_!” Jaskier jerked against the guard manhandling him across the courtyard. He responded by twisting the bard’s arms tighter where they’d been pinned behind his back - his fingers, all ten of them scrunched up awkwardly in one large, metal fist, screamed in protest. “Ow, okay, _okay_! Hand me all you like, but _please_ don’t hurt my precious babies.”  
  
The man rolled his eyes, shoving him towards the large, closed doors of the laundry room. He released his arms and Jaskier took a moment to shake out his bruising wrists - suddenly, as the men went about opening them, he realized that this was probably a good time to make a run for it.  
  
Shouting for help, he got as far as ten, fifteen feet before he was tackled to the ground. The man bearing down on him placed a knee between his shoulder blades, using his hand to grind the bard’s face into the dusty floor.  
  
The courtyard was suspiciously empty, void of any guards. He didn’t expect to see other prisoners - they were all locked up in their cells - but the fact that there wasn’t a single soul unnerved him to his very core.  
  
“Try that again and I’ll slice your ‘precious babies’ off one by one.” The man bearing down on him increased the pressure on his back, making Jaskier squirm. “Only requirement was that I bring you in alive. Are we crystal fuckin’ clear? I will cut. Them. Off. Nod once if you understand.”  
  
“Wait, listen, hear me out,” he managed through a mouthful of gravel and dirt, causing the man to lean closer, “listen - has anyone told you how _foul_ your breath is?”  
  
When he heard a blade being drawn and felt the brute go for his hand, however, he backtracked and nodded hurriedly, adding, “all right, _all right_ \- just thought you ought to _know_!”  
  
After a moment, the pressure relented and his captor yanked him up, hauling him back towards the laundry room.  
  
The scene within hit him like a punch to the gut. All of the laundrymen - including Drozdor, Paul, that guy _Kirt_ \- were bound and lined up along on the floor. A few were gagged. Paul was sporting a wicked cut on his temple.  
  
At the center, perched on a stool, sat Forle. He was still in chains, but Jaskier knew that didn’t make him any less deadly - he’d been able to hold his own in a hand-to-hand brawl with Geralt earlier, which wasn’t an easy feat. His ear was bandaged and a telltale indent let him know the Witcher had managed to take a good chunk out of it.  
  
_Perhaps if we keep chopping bits off, little by little, every time we see him, he’ll eventually just disappear altogether._  
  
The thought was a delirious one, brought Jaskier only temporary amusement before he was shoved into the room. He stumbled, falling to his knees before the elf.  
  
“Jaskier.” Forle smiled, playfully tilting his head to the side. The doors were closed and secured, cutting off the afternoon sun and bathing them in dusky torchlight. “What’s all the fuss about?”  
  
“That depends.” The bard gestured to the group of bound men, kept in place by several of Forle’s lackeys. “What’s all _this_ about?”  
  
“Funny you should ask. You’re just in time. I was about to regale these gentlemen with a _very_ interesting story.”  
  
The elf stood, long, lean legs carrying him over to Kirt. With a makeshift dagger, he stroked his cheek, grinning when he flinched. Jaskier went to help, but a rough hand on his shoulder had him plopping right back down.  
  
“Leave them out of this, Forle. Or - or _else_.”  
  
“Ooh,” Forle toyed with the tip of the blade, teasing it further in and drawing a tiny drop of blood, “ _scary_. I’m shaking in my boots. Or else what?” Around him, his men tittered with cruel amusement.  
  
“Or else - I’ll...you know, I’ll...bollocks, I had something for this. Fine, then.” Best to keep him talking, buy some time. For what? He wasn’t sure, but he knew from experience that the elf loved the sound of his own voice. “What’s your stupid story? Is it about how you turned out to be such a sadistic, _evil_ son of a - oh, wait. I’ve already heard _that_ maudlin tale.”  
  
At that, Forle scowled and in a flurry of movement, sliced a clean line along Kirt’s chest. Blood blossomed forth instantly, though the wound itself wasn’t deep enough to kill. Jaskier flinched, struggling harder against the arms that held him.  
  
Kirt didn’t make a sound but sagged against Drozdor, who glared fiercely up at the elf, shifting his shoulder so that it could better support the wounded man.  
  
“No, Jaskier. This one is about a reckless bard.” He turned to the captive laundrymen, gesturing to Jaskier with the bloodied blade. “A few years ago, this blue-eyed beauty requested my aid. Put on the waterworks, let me tell you. I obliged, of course. Never could resist helping a damsel in distress.”  
  
“Yeah, _right_.” Jaskier scoffed, trying not to make eye contact with any of his own men. They were watching him, he could feel it, with inscrutable expressions on their faces.  
  
“Speak out of turn again and I’ll kill the old man.” Forle padded over to Paul, who was just barely clinging to consciousness. A concussion. Jaskier’s mouth slammed shut. “Moral is, he’s a fraud. Nothing but a scared little songbird, in over his head. Perhaps you’ll recognize his voice. Go on, Jaskier. Give us a song. I’m sure at least one of them has ‘ _tossed a coin_ ’ to you in the tavern.”  
  
“I don’t know _what_ you are referring to - ” Jaskier was interrupted as Forle grabbed a handful of Paul’s salt-and-pepper hair, lifting his head up and bringing the dagger to his throat. Wrinkled, brown eyes struggled to remain open, going in and out of focus. “Nono, _stop_! I’ll do it, I’ll - I’ll fucking sing, you twisted bastard. Let him _go_.”  
  
Forle obliged, and Jaskier cleared his throat. Tentatively started singing, his voice pitchy and trembling terribly. Before he’d gotten the second verse out, Drozdor interrupted.  
  
“Enough!” His eyes found Jaskier’s. “We _know_.”  
  
“You - _what_?”  
  
“We know you didn’t really kill Thas. We know you’re not a fighter. Don’t know what this cockalorum’s trying to prove, but the point is we pieced it together ourselves.”  
  
“Wh-when?” Jaskier’s eyes widened, eyes darting among the rest of the laundrymen. Some shrugged, while others nodded and grunted in agreement. “I mean - how _long_?”  
  
Drozdor snorted. “There were a few indicators. ‘Fighting pants’ really sealed the deal for me, though. As for the bard thing - well, you break out in song a _lot_ , actually. I don’t even think you realize you’re doing it.”  
  
Despite the entire situation, Jaskier found himself releasing a surprised, relieved laugh. “And you just - what? Let me play ‘boss?’ Why - why on earth didn’t you say anything?”  
  
“We don’t give a shit about all that. And you weren’t playing - well, maybe at first...but what matters is, you didn’t turn tail and run at the first sign of trouble. You stuck around, tried getting us to think smart and strategize. Been locked up in this cesspool for quite some time and his,” he jerked his head at the elf, “bloody hooligans terrorized us long before you came along. Pushin’ that awful powder. Payin’ off the guards so they look the other way. You offered a chance to fight back - ”  
  
He was interrupted as Forle, whose expression had gone cold and steely, spun around and kicked him directly in the teeth. He reeled but quickly gathered himself, eyes not leaving Jaskier - before he could continue his passionate rant, however, one of their captors came up behind him and roughly secured a gag about his mouth.  
  
“Touching.” Forle rolled his eyes, adjusting his shirt and taking a seat back on his center-stage stool. He had clearly been betting on Jaskier’s men turning on him. If the bard squinted, he could see irritation pinching aquiline features. “Well, I was really hoping to avoid mass murder. Thought I’d let one problem take care of the other, but now you’ve gone and forced my hand. Honestly, what kind of hardened criminals are you? Following _him_?”  
  
“M-mass - ? No, no, there’s no _need_ for all that.” Jaskier nervously licked his lips, inching forward and gazing up at Forle. “Remember the bygones?”  
  
“Your careless actions cost me a pretty penny. Really stuck a wrench in the proverbial gears when you burned that shipment. Now - and I truly am _loath_ to say this about you, pet - but _now_ , you’re nothing more than a thief and a rat.” The elf reached into his pocket and produced a small, velvet pouch. “Do you know what I usually do to thieving rats?”  
  
Jaskier swallowed thickly. He didn’t like where this was going. “Uh...does it involve a pat on the back? You know, like, ‘thanks for showing me the error of my ways, I no longer wish to be a drug kingpin?’ That sort of thing?”  
  
“Cute. _No_. Got a reputation to uphold, and all that. You understand.” He passed the pouch off to one of his men, gesturing to Jaskier. “Anyway, I like to give them a little taste of the _really_ special stuff.”  
  
The man with the pouch approached - Jaskier thrashed around, tried squirming away, but Forle’s men caught him about the waist and kept him in place. On the sidelines, he watched as Drozdor and the rest started jerking violently against their bonds.  
  
“Look, it’s - it’s - it’s just that I’ve got very delicate sensibilities, and the - the hard stuff _really_ messes with my head, isn’t there any other way we could settle - ”  
  
As his man wrestled a shouting, panicked Jaskier to the ground, Forle continued speaking, voice light and airy - his position at the center of the room made him look very much like the eye of the storm, calm and unfettered while chaos unfolded around him.  
  
“It came from a slip-up in the lab. Accidentally engineered it while trying to substitute cheaper ingredients, cut costs on our fisstech production.” Forle inspected his fingernails, raising his voice so he could be heard over Jaskier’s cries as several hands pinned his shoulders, his legs. “I’m quite proud of how it turned out. You’ll feel strange at first, like you’re on fire but also...sinking, very slowly, in quicksand. Ravages the body. Eventually...well, you’ll die. A very unpleasant death. Cramping, foaming at the mouth. Seizures. You know, the works.”  
  
“ _Stop_!”  
  
Jaskier managed to free his leg, blindly lashing out and catching the man looming above his face in the jaw. He snarled, and a hand reached out from behind to clasp the bard’s chin, locking his head in place while his attacker loosened the drawstring, licked a finger, and dipped it in.  
  
When he pulled it back out it was coated in a thick layer of fine, light-green powder. The hand applied pressure, forcing Jaskier’s lips apart. His voice broke, suddenly small, like a child’s.  
  
“Nonono, _please_ \- ”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes, framed by a fringe of dark, wet lashes, watched in horror as that finger raked the tender interior flesh of his cheek before dragging slowly along his gums. An awful taste immediately followed, like chemicals, sharp and bitter. A tingling, buzzing sort of numbness blossomed wherever the powder touched.  
  
“Swallow.”  
  
Jaskier shook his head, stubbornly refusing. The hand released his chin, moved until it was covering his nose and mouth. He valiantly resisted for a short while, but with his air supply cut off, his body eventually did the deed for him.  
  
Wicked laughter erupted as they watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down multiple times, trying to clear the vile taste. Forle sneered, slipping gracefully off the stool, like an eel moving through water.  
  
And Jaskier, he immediately suffered from an unfamiliar heaviness that pooled in his hands and feet, traveled up his arms and legs, like he was being pumped full of thick, warm honey.  
  
“That should be enough. Don’t want to kill you outright.” He sauntered over and regarded the way the bard struggled to move his limbs with piqued curiosity. “I just _cannot_ , in good conscience, let a sweet thing like you die without having a bit of fun. How’s that sound, pet - are you up for it? Oh, what am I saying? Of _course_ you are.”  
  
Jaskier found he couldn’t respond, barely managed to shake his head. His breathing was erratic - while he suddenly felt terribly lethargic, a prickling sensitivity enveloped his whole body; even the brush of stone beneath him, the shift of fabric against his skin, had his nerve endings lighting up with agonizing intensity.  
  
“Bring him to the stockroom. I hear that’s where all the _fun_ goes down.” Forle’s eyes flicked lazily over to his other captives. “And kill the rest, I guess. Maybe...beat them to death with their own washboards? Yes. That’s good. That’s _poetry_.”  
  
His men nodded and Jaskier tried crawling away, nails digging into the stone floor, before someone grabbed his legs and dragged him back.

♜ ♖

Geralt stood in the rubble that remained of the back wall, aggressively working the rope binding his wrists against a jagged piece of stone. Once it gave, he sprinted towards the laundry room without pause.  
  
While he had been trying to free himself, more smells and sounds broke through the cracks, giving him a vague image of what was happening outside.  
  
Jaskier. Bone-chilling fear. Something was wrong, he wasn’t _right_. Chemicals. Excitement. _Forle_.  
  
He moved incredibly fast, practically breaking the doors down - the stench of blood crashed over him like a tidal wave. Forle’s men were viciously beating a group of prisoners. Jaskier’s ragged band of fugitives, by the looks of it.  
  
Geralt’s entrance had them stopping suddenly, washboards held high in the air. Jaskier was nowhere to be seen but Geralt could smell him, needed to get to him, there was something terribly _off_ about his scent. It was all over the place, difficult to track -  
  
The first man who charged at him was dispatched easily. Geralt hardly batted an eye as he grabbed the washboard mid-swing, tore it from his attacker’s hands, and clobbered him over the head with it.  
  
“Where’s Jaskier?”  
  
Another followed a similar fate. He growled and stalked forward, pulling one off an old, injured man and tossing him across the room.  
  
“ _Where_ \- ”  
  
Someone came at him from behind and he swiveled around, delivering a crushing blow to the chest. The washboard snapped and he threw the remaining half with deadly force and accuracy, catching one thug in the back of his skull and sending him careening into a large bucket filled with murky water.  
  
“ - the _fuck_ \- ”  
  
His voice had raised to a thunderous roar. Jaskier’s men managed to scatter - those that weren’t too seriously injured worked to remove their bindings. Once they were free, they were able to fight back - and fight back they did, catching Forle’s men as they tried regrouping from the distraction of Geralt’s initial attack.  
  
“ - _is he_?”  
  
“Back room, Geralt!” Drozdor, who had managed to slip off his gag. Someone leapt at him and he bashed them in the face with his fist, staggering them. “ _Go_. We can manage from here.”  
  
The last part was unnecessary - Geralt was already on his way, dropping another opponent as he stormed through the tumultuous, soapy battleground. Something soft hit him in the back of the head and he spun around with a snarl, expecting another enemy - no one was there, and he glanced down at his feet to see a tiny pouch, some greenish powder spilling out and melting into the water that had breached the floor.  
  
“Witcher!” A very skinny man, who had scrambled to a far corner of the room, panting and clutching a shallow cut across his chest. “They fed that to him. Some sort of poison. He won’t have long, now - ”  
  
With a curse, Geralt snatched the pouch and bolted down the hall. One burly thug, positioned outside the door - he realized, with a sinking feeling, that it was the room they’d spent the morning in - charged at him with a spear.  
  
Geralt didn’t feel anything, not an ounce of satisfaction or remorse as he disarmed the man, placed an open hand over his face, and cracked his skull against the wall. 

♜ ♖

Jaskier was ebbing in and out of lucidity. One moment, he was crumpled in a pile amongst the remnants of the table he and Geralt had destroyed - the next, he was propped up against a wall, Forle’s face doubling as it leered above him.  
  
“How do you feel, pet?” His voice echoed, terribly distorted. The edges of Jaskier’s vision frayed while the elf pointedly surveyed the room. “You two made quite a mess of the place.”  
  
“Guh...” Jaskier squeezed his eyes shut to calm the spinning, the way the world seemed to be _melting_ , before reopening them and finding much of the same. “ _Ger_...”  
  
“No, he’s not coming. He’s in the hole. Ah, that would be his second of the day, wouldn’t it?” Chains rattled as Forle crouched before Jaskier, hungry eyes roaming his body, lingering on all the places he knew would make him most uncomfortable. “Far less pleasant than the first, I imagine.”  
  
“ _Ugh_.” Even through the haze, Jaskier managed to shoot him a withering, disgusted look. “Buh - b- _bast_...”  
  
Forle’s lips quirked in amusement. With the pad of his thumb, he swiped at a dribble of frothy, pinkish drool that had been slowly trickling out from the corner of Jaskier’s mouth. He must have bitten his tongue, at some point. He didn’t feel the pain. While things had at first been excruciating, the initial overstimulation wore off, giving way to a distant fogginess.  
  
“Yes, I know. I’m a bastard. A greedy one, at that. I want all sorts of unimaginable things.” A heavy sigh, as if he bore the weight of the world on his shoulders. “Right now, for instance. I want you, before you leave this mortal coil. And we know that when I want something - oh, there I go again, repeating myself. I’m sure you remember the mantra.”  
  
The bard gurgled something in response, an almost incoherent “fuck you.”  
  
“Tempting offer, sweetheart, but I don’t think you’re currently capable. Seems I’ll be doing most of the work.” Jaskier was unable to support the weight of his own head - as it lolled to the side, Forle grabbed his chin, giving him a little shake that had the room nearly turning upside-down with how violently it slanted. “Keep those beautiful baby blues open for me, will you? The fun is only just beginning.”  
  
As the bard wrestled with blinking rapidly, trying to force the room to right itself, Forle stood and straightened.  
  
“You know, you’re deteriorating faster than I expected.”  
  
Cold, colorless eyes glanced down at him - his blown-out pupils, the way he couldn’t focus on anything for longer than a second. Vaguely, Jaskier heard the soft _shick_ of a leather belt sliding through fabric loops, the sound of it being dropped to the floor.  
  
“We’ll have to move quickly, before the convulsions start.”  
  
The sight of the article coiled like a snake at his feet suddenly filled Jaskier with panic, as though a switch had been flipped. He wriggled experimentally, the action causing him to topple over. A hand was on his back, then, pulling his shirt over his head.  
  
With all the strength he could muster, Jaskier flung his fist at Forle, but his movements were sluggish and slow. The elf easily caught it, regarding the hand clutched in his curiously. It jerked weakly, causing him to tighten his grip.  
  
“I’ve been wondering what about you is so delectable. What’s got me and that brute you call a lover so _mesmerized_.”  
  
Jaskier let out a low moan as he was rolled onto his back, Forle releasing his hand to run his own along the bard’s bare shoulder.  
  
“After some pondering, I think I’ve got it figured out. It’s because, despite your fragile human state, you are annoyingly _resilient_. Your mind, your heart. Makes him want to protect you.” Prying fingers flitted down, feather-light. When they reached his hip they dug into the smooth flesh with bruising strength. “Makes me want to break you.”  
  
“He’ll - _kill_ \- you.” Jaskier panted out, voice splintering with panic - and pain, because now that he was on his back, he was aware of a dull, but slowly intensifying cramp in his middle. The deeply internal kind that had to have meant something was terribly wrong.  
  
On top of that, the spit pooling in the back of his throat was getting harder and harder to swallow.  
  
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” A shrug. “Either way, you’ll be long gone, and he’ll be cursed to live on with the knowledge that you died writhing and screaming beneath me.”  
  
It was difficult to form thoughts, let alone speak them. “ _Won’t_...scream...”  
  
“We’ll see.” Forle’s eyes curved in a smile but as he dragged the high waist of Jaskier’s pants below his hipbone, dragged it _lower_ , the warbled sounds of a struggle in the hall drew his attention away.  
  
He shot up and whirled around just as the door was blown off its hinges. It slammed into the far wall and in its place stood Geralt, shoulders hunched, seething.  
  
Immediately, gold eyes fell on Jaskier. Lying on the floor. Shirtless. Pants askew. Labored breathing. Pulse too slow. The bitter stench of chemicals that had been mucking with his natural scent.  
  
Flitted up to Forle. Flushed, tanned skin. A sick aura of arousal and bloodlust permeating the air around him. His belt had been removed.  
  
With a snarl, Geralt charged at him. No little quips this time. No clever one-liners. He barreled forth like a battering ram, slamming the elf into the wall with force enough to crack stone, elbow digging into his throat and pinning him there.  
  
“Piece of shit,” Geralt hissed, bearing down harder, “tell me what you gave him and how to fix it.”  
  
When he was met only with a slick grin, he cursed and reached into his pocket, producing the pouch. Released Forle just long enough to throw him bodily down onto the ground beside Jaskier, pinning him there with his knees.  
  
The elf’s carefully maintained mask of nonchalance faltered momentarily at the sight of the pouch but before he could really react, Geralt stuck his hand into his mouth to keep it open - naturally, Forle bit down. Hard. Teeth sunk into the top of Geralt’s hand and his palm, meeting bone. Blood spilled out from the corners of Forle’s mouth.  
  
Geralt didn’t relent as the body beneath him bucked, but as he undid the drawstring with his teeth, Forle clobbered him over the head with the hard edge of his dimeritium cuff. The pouch fell, some of its contents scattering.  
  
Forle used the split-second distraction to half-roll backwards before propelling himself forward, legs lashing out and kicking Geralt once, twice in the chest, sending him sprawling back.  
  
And Forle was on his feet in an instant, going to deliver another rib-cracking kick - Geralt caught his boot, yanking it forward and dragging his opponent back down to the ground.  
  
Wrapping his bleeding hand about Forle’s throat, grabbing a handful of powder with the other - as soon as he saw an opening he stuffed it down the elf’s gullet, slapping an open palm over his mouth and nose, forcing him to swallow. Unknowingly, in the same method his men had done to Jaskier.  
  
He released the spluttering, coughing monster and drew back, standing and kicking him hard in the ribs.  
  
“Tell me. _Now_. If you don’t, you’ll suffer the same fate.” Then, grudgingly, because he needed a bargaining chip. “If you do, I’ll cure you as well.”  
  
From where he’d managed to curl in on himself, Jaskier gurgled wetly in protest. Geralt wanted to go to him, to hold him, but Forle was lurching to the side, about to try and make himself sick - he darted forward, snatched his fingers before he could stick them down his throat.  
  
With gritted teeth, he tightened his grip until one digit cracked. Then another. Whatever it was already seemed to be taking hold, Forle’s pupils blowing out, evident against light irises. He didn’t cry out but was clearly in pain, jaw working as he glared at his own hand trapped within Geralt’s.  
  
After a long moment, as he processed the position he’d been put in, something in his demeanor changed.  
  
“Mm. Touché.” Forle’s fingers were going limp in his own, skin clammy. His words slurred more intensely with each passing second, and Geralt broke a pinky to keep him talking. “Activated charcoal. Ab- _absorbs_ the poison. Has to be before the co... _convulsions_ ,” he found Jaskier over Geralt’s shoulder, a mad, breathy laugh escaping his lips when he saw the way the bard was trying to wrap his arms about his stomach at a snail’s pace, “or...too late. _Oops_.”  
  
“Fuck.” Without serious improvisation, that would take hours to create. As Forle swayed and crumpled bonelessly to the floor, Geralt rushed to the broken shelves, desperately scavenging through the rubble. Located a small vial of salt. “ _Fuck_.”  
  
He had to act quickly. No time to stop and soothe Jaskier, who was coated in a heavy sheen of sweat, gasping but still hanging on. No convulsions yet.  
  
With great difficulty he tore his gaze away from the bard and ran out, down the hall, skidding to a stop in front of the steam room. Didn’t pause to see who was winning the fight. No time. Fuck, fuck, fuck. If they’d emptied the remnants of the fire that kept the stones warm, there’d be no chance. He couldn’t burn and cool fresh logs in time.  
  
A single second of relief when he saw, beneath the basin, a pile of blackened wood and ash. Moving haphazardly, he tossed the stones out of their holder and scooped the most thoroughly burned bits in. Grabbed the bucket of water. Ran back to the room.  
  
Jaskier shifted as he entered, but made nothing more than soft, desperate noises. The sight and sound alone had Geralt’s gut twisting as he set the two containers down. Used the bottom of the vial of salt to grind the wood into a fine, black powder. Poured the salt into the water, cursed when he realized he needed a fucking sieve.  
  
Glancing around, he spied Jaskier’s shirt on the floor. Don’t think about how it got there. It would have to do. While he used it to filter the substance, having to pour the excess out on the floor, he heard a strangled wheeze to his right. Instinctively, his hand shot out and grabbed the bard’s as his other squeezed the liquid out.  
  
“Stay with me, Jaskier.”  
  
After a moment he had to let go, needed the use of both of his hands. Jaskier’s cold sweat coated his palm. As he ran the concoction through his makeshift sieve one last time, he found himself speaking in jolted fragments.  
  
“After this, it’s straight to the coast. All day in the sun. All the wine you can drink. Warm water. Knowing you, probably stumble upon a nest of sirens. Fucking monster magnet.”  
  
Perhaps he was imagining it, but he could have sworn he heard a soft snort. When he glanced over his shoulder, however, the bard’s face was scrunched up in agony. There was no way he could have heard Geralt, was miles away, mind and body wrecked by the drug.  
  
Fetal position, some sort of abdominal distress. Time was running out.  
  
Now that it was properly filtered, he emptied the soggy powder into the basin. Carefully heated the bottom with the palm of his hand, evaporating any liquid, speeding up the drying process. Pour in the remaining water to make it drinkable, and...  
  
Suddenly, just as soon as he’d finished, the intermittent wounded-animal cries emanating from Jaskier came to a halt and the small space was blanketed in eerie silence.  
  
Geralt whirled around, saw that his tense posture was now slack. Foam bubbled from pale lips, pooling on the floor. Eyes squeezed shut, tears trapped in thick lashes. A single tremor ran through his body.  
  
He shuffled forward on his knees, didn’t realize he was holding his breath as he gently eased Jaskier’s upper body onto his lap, propping his head up and bringing the swirling, brackish liquid to his mouth.  
  
Once the solution had been tipped in, Geralt gently cupped his palm over too-still lips to prevent it from trickling out. Used his other hand to massage the bard’s throat, easing the liquid down.  
  
Immediately, Jaskier choked - it wasn’t a pleasant texture, rough and grainy - and Geralt barely managed to get him onto his side as he puked it back up.  
  
“Damn it, Jaskier! Will you ever stop being a pain in my ass?” Geralt barked, repeating the process. The second time, he kept his hand on Jaskier’s neck, rubbing gentle, soothing circles. After a moment, remembering the stakes, he remedied his previous statement, the edge gone from his voice. “No. Didn’t mean that. I love you, you pain in the ass.” He peered down. “Even though you just projectile vomited all over my fucking leg.”  
  
The comforting ministrations, combined with Geralt’s voice, low in his ear, seemed to do the trick. With a groan, Jaskier buried his sweaty head into the Witcher’s chest, abdominal muscles clenching, throat bobbing as he fought to keep the remedy down.  
  
For a breathless moment, Geralt worried the activated charcoal wouldn’t take. That he’d missed a step, or been too late. If the drug had worked its way into his system, moved past his stomach, it wouldn’t work. He pulled the bard closer, one hand on his head, nestling it into his own chest.  
  
Then, with a shuddering cough, an arm flew up and whacked him in the head. He cursed, glanced down to see confused, terribly drowsy blue eyes squinting up at him.  
  
“ _Gerroffme_.”  
  
The sound of his voice, however slurred - and, for some reason, _irritated_ \- it was, had a rush of relief flooding through Geralt. It came out in the form of a broad smile.  
  
“Jaskier. How are you feeling?”  
  
“ - _off_ \- ”  
  
“What?”  
  
“ - _alt_ \- ”  
  
“What the fuck are you saying?”  
  
“Ger - _alt_ \- you _oaf_ \- ” The arm was back, clumsily batting at his face in an attempt to shove him away. He hissed as a finger poked him in the eye, another pressing annoyingly into his lips until the whole hand was latched on like a starfish. “Can’t _breathe_.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” He realized he had been clutching Jaskier in an almost vice-like grip. With a deep chuckle, he loosened his hold, gently prying the hand off his face. The bard let out a gasping breath, floundering haphazardly before sagging into his lap. “Sorry, Jaskier. Better?”  
  
He was met with a grumpy - but affirmative - ‘ _mmrf_.’  
  
With that, he slipped his arms under the bard and lifted him up, bridal style. Careful not to jostle him too much, as he was still quite out of it, though he relished in the familiar weight of the other man, the warmth of his body against his own. Now, time to get the fuck out.  
  
It was then that he remembered they weren’t alone. Well, was forced to remember when he nearly tripped over the second body in the room. Right.  
  
With one boot, he nudged the container of the remaining liquid until it was a few inches from Forle’s head. The elf managed to scowl up at him, eyes narrowed to slits. He was unable to speak, the same foamy liquid Jaskier had been expelling now escaping from the corners of his full lips. The previously pleasant, deep olive tones of his skin seemed to have been blanched, now tinged with varying shades of violet.  
  
“What’s the matter? Can’t move?” Geralt curled his arms inward, drawing a burbling, babbling Jaskier closer to his chest, trying to shield him from the sight. Forle’s hand twitched, eyes sliding over to the container. It was torturously, infuriatingly close. “Did you think I’d lift a finger to help you after what you did? What you were going to do?”  
  
The place went silent again, filled only with Forle’s rasping, labored breathing and the steady beating of Jaskier’s heart. Interspersed occasionally with the bard’s soft, unintelligible murmurs. He was too far gone to comprehend what was happening, face burrowed somewhere around Geralt’s armpit.  
  
“If you can get to it in time, you’ll live.” The memory of Jaskier, drugged and shirtless - the sight of Forle’s discarded belt, the sick stench of his intentions - still fresh in his mind. “But you’ll have to do it on your own. Good fucking luck.”  
  
He didn’t stick around to see how things turned out. Not only did he refuse to help, he also refused to give the elf the satisfaction of a dignified end. It was highly unlikely he’d be able to reach the container in time.  
  
Besides, all that mattered now was the bleary-eyed bundle cradled in his arms.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Jaskier’s men had managed to subdue and tie up those that remained of Forle’s. They busied themselves with treating their wounded, but stopped to watch as the Witcher strode out of the dark hallway.  
  
A sigh of relief rippled through their ranks when they noticed what he was carrying. He paused long enough to nod to them - Drozdor returned it and after a moment, the rest did as well - before exiting the laundry room.  
  
Outside, a force of guards had amassed, listening to the chaos within, weapons drawn to subdue any survivors. Geralt groaned, carefully easing Jaskier to the floor before turning to them. The head guard stepped forth, the veins in his neck and forehead pulsing with rage.  
  
“Not who you were expecting?”  
  
“ _Witcher_. What have you done - ”  
  
“Shut up. Don’t care.” Geralt rolled his shoulders, cracked his neck. Readied himself for yet another fight. “Draw your blade. Let’s get this over with.”  
  
Before any of that could happen, a portal opened up behind the squad of armed guards. Out of it stepped Yennefer, several of the arch duke’s men following closely behind.  
  
With a nod from the sorceress, they fanned out, immediately descending upon the prison guards.  
  
“Well. Clearly things here are worse than we thought.” She scowled at the head guard, stepping gracefully forward until she was standing between him and Geralt. “The arch duke is awake, and he’s not pleased to hear how negligent you’ve been. Really - murders, riots? All happening under your watchful eye?”  
  
“Told you.” Geralt leered at him. “ _Negligence_.”  
  
“Mistress Yennefer, it’s not what it looks like - ”  
  
She raised a hand, tone brooking no room for argument. “Silence. Until we pinpoint exactly where this corruption starts and stops, the entire prison staff will be taken into custody and replaced with members of the arch duke’s personal guard.”  
  
“But - ”  
  
“No.” Yen cocked her head very slightly to the side, speaking to Geralt without turning around. “You two look like hell. All right?”  
  
“Been better, but we’ll live.”  
  
A curt nod, the tension in her shoulders dissolving slightly. “Get the silly arse off the floor then, will you? Your names have been cleared and the arch duke’s requesting an audience from where he’s recovering in his chambers.”  
  
Geralt snorted from where he’d already hurried back to Jaskier - who roused a bit, murmuring a confused “what the bloody hell’s going on?” as his arm was secured over the Witcher’s broad shoulders.  
  
“Oh, and Geralt?”  
  
“Yes, Yen?”  
  
“Don’t presume either of you are off the hook.” She turned, then, violet eyes regarding him coolly. The ghost of a smile danced across plump, red lips. “I demand to know every last detail of how you and that buffoon managed to instigate a prison-wide riot in less than two days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That’s a wrap on Forle! Quick, everyone throw things and boo him off the stage! Boooo


	56. Chapter 56

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Day 2 of complete isolation oof! My roommate walked in, saw I was rereading lord of the flies, and said “don’t get any ideas, asshole” so SOMEONE’S feeling better. Like I’d _ever_ \- *drops everything and madly searches for a conch shell* 
> 
> Anywaaaaay this is the first of two fluff-filled resolution chapters! There is actually going to be a short time-skip before the next arc. Since the last few bled together, I wanted a fun, fresh start full of crazy possibilities! This one will take place in a diff location and involve a new curse, but still contain all the usual suspects (those that are still alive at least, coughforlecough)
> 
> Anyone wanna guess what the new curse will be?? Here’s a hint: it’s a *sings* total mindfu-u-ck!!

“Why is he so out of it, Geralt?” Yennefer asked softly as they made their way through the castle halls. The place was silent, aside from the click of her heels against smooth marble and Jaskier’s occasional muffled murmurs. She observed the bard’s scrunched-up face, the usually fluffy hair that sweat had glued to his forehead. He had said a few words back at the prison, but they’d mostly been garbled nonsense. “What happened?”  
  
Geralt’s face was stony. He didn’t look at her, opting to stare straight ahead, though he subconsciously drew the body in his arms closer.  
  
“Doesn’t matter now.” He wasn’t sure how much Jaskier remembered, and it didn’t feel right for him to tell Yen before he’d had a chance to discuss it with the bard. “Bastard’s dead.”  
  
She nodded. There was a dark look on her face.  
  
“Good,” her tone was casual, as though she was vocalizing an afterthought rather than a thinly-veiled question, “it would be a damn shame if whoever did it gave him the mercy of a painless end.”  
  
“I didn’t.”  
  
“Good.”  
  
By the time they made it to the door of the arch duke’s bedroom, Jaskier was lucid enough to walk on his own, though he leaned heavily on Geralt for support.  
  
Before they could enter, however, the bard pushed away from him, teetering dangerously as he glared down at his pants. The Witcher silently cursed himself when he noticed that the top button was still undone. Jaskier clumsily tried doing it back up, but his usually nimble fingers were unable to pop it through the hole.  
  
Yen waited patiently at the door, gesturing for the guards not to open it yet. He could tell by the calculating look in her eyes that she was still slowly, silently piecing things together.  
  
“Jask - _Jaskier_ , let me.” Geralt forced back all the feelings of outrage burning in his chest and gently guided the bard’s hands away, easily buttoning him back up. “It’s all right - ”  
  
“No, it’s _not_!” Jaskier slurred, sounding like he was at least ten pints deep. He frowned down at his bare chest. Geralt went to comfort him, but his next words had a chill running down his spine. “I can’t very well see the arch duke like _this_! Wh-why on earth am I half-naked, Geralt? Where is my _shirt_?”  
  
“Oh. Um...” he looked down at those accusing, _exhausted_ blue eyes and decided the whole truth could wait until they were alone, until the bard was more _there_ , “had to use it as a sieve. Sorry.”  
  
“A _sieve_?” Jaskier eyeballed him to the best of his ability, but eventually seemed satisfied with the answer. He allowed Geralt to slip his arm back over his shoulder. “Well, I’m sure you had your reasons. Does it have anything to do with the foul taste in my mouth?”  
  
A sigh. He nodded to Yennefer, who beckoned for the guards to let them in. “I’ll explain later, Jaskier. Let’s just get this over with.”  
  
The arch duke’s quarters were massive, a few halls down from the throne room, which was currently under construction.  
  
The man himself was sitting up in bed. He had nasty bruises all along his face, swelling his left eye shut. His leg was in a splint, propped up above the sheets. A woman, who Geralt recognized as his wife, stood beside him. When she saw Yen, she offered a small smile. To his surprise, the sorceress returned it.  
  
As they cautiously approached the bed, the arch duke gave them a slick, not _terribly_ friendly smile of his own. Other than that, his expression was unreadable.  
  
“So, you two made it out alive, did you?”  
  
Geralt narrowed his eyes, securing his grip about Jaskier’s waist. “No thanks to your men.”  
  
“Yes, well. You can’t exactly blame them. They found you - a known fugitive - at the center of it all. Seems to be a reoccurring theme. Valenves Keep. My throne room. The prison _riot_.” The man sat up a bit further in bed, leering at them. “From an outsider’s perspective, it all looks a bit shady.”  
  
“Perhaps. Is this your fun way of thanking us?”  
  
There was a tense moment where they didn’t break eye contact. Jaskier glanced between them, looking hopelessly confused - he had a very slim grasp on what was happening around him but things were slowly becoming clearer as his body worked off the residual effects of the drug that had been forced into his system.  
  
After what felt like an eternity, a genuine smile broke out across the arch duke’s face. He settled back into massive, down pillows.  
  
“Lucky for you, I’m no outsider. You saved my life. My wife’s, as well.” He nodded to Jaskier. “For that, I thank you both. We are eternally grateful.”  
  
“Words are just that.” Geralt grumbled, though a small bit of tension had left his posture. “I’ll take my thanks in coin.”  
  
“Ah, right! Well, not only have you saved my life - you’ve also taken care of a certain pest problem that’s been plaguing my city’s streets.” He clapped his hands together, and several guards entered the room carrying large chests overflowing with gold. “A monetary reward simply does not feel adequate, however. I owe you a life debt. Now, I’ve heard all about your... _history_ with the Law of Surprise, so I won’t even ask. But please, allow me to repay you in some other way. What is it you desire? Fame? Glory? Land?”  
  
From where Jaskier had been sagging against Geralt, he suddenly propelled himself forward, stumbling a bit. He had perked considerably at the mention of a reward, and his movements were nowhere _near_ as sluggish as they had been moments ago.  
  
Geralt frowned at his back. “Where the fuck did that energy come from? I carried you the whole way here.”  
  
“Geralt, my heart. Shh.” Jaskier grinned and turned to the arch duke, wobbling on his feet. “As for a _reward_ , well - actually, I’ve been compiling a little list. So, do you...do you have somewhere to jot this down?”  
  
The arch duke squinted at him before urging his steward to pull out a parchment and a quill. Once that was done, he sighed, “go on, then.”  
  
“Firstly, I would like you to clear Annika’s name. She did help save you, too, you know. And that arsehat Lord Jannick _must_ be investigated for murder. Several murders. And conspiracy. _And_ unlawful imprisonment. Oh, speaking of - there are a few friends I’d _really_ like to see released from that unlawful prison of yours.” Jaskier didn’t back down when the arch duke scowled. “You know, the one that was overrun by a _drug lord_? Don’t worry, they’re really, really stand-up guys. Won’t do any more criming, or whatever. I’ll, uh, give you their names later...” he trailed off, thoughtfully tapping his chin with his pointer finger. “Ah, yes! A banquet in our honor before we take our leave. That would be lovely. Aaaand - ”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, burying his face into his open palm. By the time Jaskier was done with his ‘little list’ of requests, the arch duke - from where he’d been sinking very slowly into the pillows, eyes drifting closed - snapped to attention and clapped his hands once more. He suddenly seemed very eager to get them out of his chambers.  
  
“Very well! Give the gentleman what he wants.” When the steward gave him a look, he waved him off. “ _Anything_ he wants. As for the banquet, we can make that happen as soon as...tomorrow evening? Yes, tomorrow. Now, what say you heroes get some rest, eh? I’ll put you up in two of our nicest suites.”  
  
“ _Suite_. Just the one.” Jaskier corrected smoothly, nearly knocking himself off-balance when he turned back to wink at Geralt.  
  
“Very well. Suite.” A heavy sigh. “Please, get him out of my sight. Before I change my mind.”  
  
The Witcher obliged, grabbing the bard’s hand and leading him out of the room. 

♜ ♖

Yen accompanied them as they made their way to their temporary quarters. She had a healing hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, helping him work through the last of the drug’s effects.  
  
When they reached the door, he was bright-eyed and bushy-tailed, thrilled to see what the arch duke considered to be the castle’s ‘nicest’ suite.  
  
The door swung open, revealing a room that was roughly the size of a very large apartment. It had a full bathroom, a fireplace, and ridiculously high ceilings. Every piece of furniture - even the wallpaper- had been delicately inlaid with gold. Above the bed, a large, dome-shaped window had been fixed into the ceiling, filling the room with daylight. It made everything glitter spectacularly, made the place pleasantly warm.  
  
After the initial excitement died down, Jaskier decided he needed a bath. He was in surprisingly high spirits but, before Yen had taken her leave, she warned Geralt to keep an eye on him. As if he ever had his eye _off_ him.  
  
That was how he ended up seated on an almost uncomfortably plush chair in front of the fireplace, reading a fairly tedious book he’d scavenged from the shelves lining the large living space. Inside, he heard the bard splashing around in the tub that he’d heated for him, humming a soft tune.  
  
Suddenly, a short while later, he heard a loud crash in the bathroom. Something shattering on its tiled floor. A sharp, shuddering inhale.  
  
“Jaskier?” In an instant he had dropped the book, was at the door. There was silence inside and, fearing the worst, he burst in. “Are you - ”  
  
The bard stood in front of the mirror. Hair and skin still dripping wet, flushed and pleasantly pink in places from the hot bath. There was a towel riding very low around his hips, but any appreciation Geralt had for that wonderful view shattered as soon as he saw the look on Jaskier’s face, realized what had spooked him.  
  
A trembling, open palm was hovering over a gods-awful bruise just above his left hipbone, dark and curling around his side. Long, purple-blue finger marks marred the spot just above his pelvis, the shadow of a thumb disappearing below the towel, a pinky branching up as far as his belly button.  
  
The impression was deep and realistic enough that it looked very much like Forle’s hand was still there. Geralt hazarded that to Jaskier, it might as well have been.  
  
“This is from him, isn’t it? I’m starting to remember...” Jaskier turned to face him. He’d dropped a pot of ointment, its contents oozing thickly from where they’d spilled out at his bare feet. “He touched me here, and...”  
  
Nimble fingers skirted back around to two more hand-shaped bruises just below the twin dimples on his lower back. To think, mere hours ago, in their little bubble of bliss, Geralt had peppered soft kisses along that exact stretch of skin. It had been unblemished then, and he’d dug his thumbs into those dimples simply because he liked the way they fit.  
  
Now, from where he was currently frozen in the doorway, Geralt could see the ghost of Forle’s hands winking at him in the mirror’s dented reflection - those two were far less pronounced than the contusion on Jaskier’s hip, but still stood in glaringly stark contrast to the pallor of his skin.  
  
Knowing what the elf had intended to do and being faced with the cold, hard evidence of what he’d managed to do were wildly different, Geralt realized. The high waist of Jaskier’s pants had hidden the extent of the damage. His jaw flexed as he ground his teeth and thought of what to say. Don’t lie. Be honest.  
  
“Yes.” Too honest - Jaskier’s face fell. Shit. “But he’s gone, Jaskier. Can’t hurt you anymore.”  
  
“‘Gone?’”  
  
The broken-voiced innocence was nearly enough to kill him on the spot.  
  
“I - ”  
  
“No,” the bard shook his head, “I - I don’t think I’m ready to know that yet, Geralt.”  
  
He wanted to run to him but forced himself to walk, approaching slowly and placing a hand over the deeper bruise, the one on his hip. Made sure to keep his touch light and non-threatening. His eyes, warm gold and comforting, only left the bard’s long enough to gesture to the ointment on the ground.  
  
“Would you prefer if I did it?”  
  
Silence. Then, Jaskier nodded slowly.  
  
He watched - almost in a trance - as Geralt knelt before him. His breath caught in his throat when the other man pressed his lips to the mottled purple handprint. Nervous hands fluttered before one settled atop Geralt’s head, fingers carding through long, white locks.  
  
The Witcher lingered for a moment before drawing back and dipping two fingers into the ointment on the ground, swiping it over the bruise. He did the same for those on the bard’s back, planting careful kisses on each before coating them with the healing tincture.  
  
When he was done, he looked up and found Jaskier’s wide-eyed gaze was fixed upon his lips. The stunned, baffled look on his face had them curving into a soft smile.  
  
“Better?”  
  
“Gods, yes.” The bard struggled to gather himself, letting out a breathy, relieved laugh. The tender kisses, the gentle touches - somehow, they took Forle’s ownership of the bruises away. Filled him with the need to continue taking. “I think the sight of you on your knees like that could heal just about anything, Geralt.”  
  
“That right?”  
  
“ _Indubitably_.”  
  
“Hm. I see.” His attention was drawn to an increasingly prominent _physical_ reaction occurring beneath the towel and he smirked, gaze flicking up to the blushing face above. “Tell me, Jaskier - is there anything else that needs...‘healing?’”  
  
“Well, there’s at least _one_ thing that comes to mind.” Jaskier swallowed thickly, those bright blue eyes tearing themselves from Geralt’s and glancing pointedly between them. “Y’know, since you’re - you’re already down there, and everything.”  
  
With a nod, Geralt kissed the spot just above Jaskier’s _one thing_ before using his teeth to undo the towel, letting it fall in a heap on the floor. He moved slowly, giving Jaskier time to be sure, to retract if he decided it was too much too soon.  
  
Slender fingers wound into his hair again, tighter this time, as he took the bard into his mouth. Geralt chuckled around the length of him when he heard a soft string of obscenities, the sound of a head slamming back against the mirror with almost concussive force.  
  
He took his time, drawing out and devouring every pant, every sigh, every gasp of ‘fucking _hell_ , Geralt.’ Usually, he got unimaginable enjoyment out of pleasuring the bard - in every imaginable way - but this time, it was different.  
  
This time, Jaskier was feeling vulnerable. Needed a distraction, even if it was only temporary. Needed reassurance, even if the bruises weren’t gone by morning. Geralt would gladly provide both in whatever way he could, for however long and however many times the bard desired.  
  
And, perhaps a little selfishly, _he_ needed the physical reminder that Jaskier was there before him, no longer dying slowly on the stockroom floor but there, tangible and alive and his.  
  
By the time both of their needs had been properly sated, the sun had long since set and the castle was enveloped in peaceful silence.  
  
Jaskier’s head rested on Geralt’s firm stomach, soft, brown hair tickling his belly button. Both men were naked and sprawled on the bed, watching the starry night sky through the dome of glass in the ceiling. They were exhausted, but found they couldn’t yet sleep.  
  
Geralt’s hand absentmindedly ran up and down Jaskier’s arm and shoulder, occasionally brushing the gnarled, knotted scar left behind by that bandit. It seemed like it had happened ages ago - his memories of the swamp, of the start of their journey, were distant and dream-like.  
  
“I heard you, you know.”  
  
The subtle ministrations stopped, Geralt’s fingers resting just above the scar.  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Jaskier smiled to himself and when he spoke, lowered his voice in a surly little impression of his lover. “‘Grr, straight to the coast. Sun and wine and fuck you, Jaskier.’”  
  
At that, Geralt huffed a surprised, gravelly laugh. “Wildly inaccurate paraphrasing.”  
  
“Yeah, you’re probably right. It’s all a bit fuzzy. But,” he tilted his head back, eyes finding Geralt’s, “did you really mean it? We’ll go to the coast? _Together_?”  
  
“Together.”  
  
Satisfied, the bard squirmed around, trying to make himself more comfortable - a gangly elbow dug into Geralt’s ribs in the process and he grunted, wordlessly removing the limb and setting it down on the bed.  
  
Eventually, Jaskier settled beside him, both of them sharing a pillow.  
  
“After the banquet. We’ll bring Ciri, too.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“She’ll absolutely love it, won’t she?”  
  
“Think so. She’s never been.”  
  
They were quiet for a long while after that. Geralt listened to Jaskier’s even breathing, thought he might have fallen asleep - was dozing a bit himself - when suddenly, the bard spoke again.  
  
“I heard the other things you were saying.”  
  
A groan. “More impressions?”  
  
“Well - actually, no. Not this time. I love you, too, Geralt. Even though you’re _also_ a pain in my arse.” Jaskier yawned and rolled over, his back facing the other man. “Both literally _and_ figuratively.”  
  
“Naughty bard.” Geralt teased, his voice a sleepy rumble. He channeled the last of his energy into wrapping an arm about the slender waist beside him, drawing it in until every inch of Jaskier’s backside was flush against his front. With that done, he nuzzled his face into the crook of the bard’s neck, curling in on him. “Sleep now.”  
  
Jaskier hummed softly in agreement, almost unbearably content; his last thought before drifting off was of how safe he felt, and how he would very much like to remain in that position forever.

♜ ♖

‘Forever’ was interrupted by a knock on the door, early in the morning. A soft voice and the clatter of a tray on the other side informed Jaskier that breakfast had arrived.  
  
Geralt cracked an eye open, scowling at the intrusion. They’d slept very little and very poorly the last couple of days.  
  
“Fuck off,” he growled, half-heartedly chucking a pillow at the door, “too early.”  
  
“Ah, but Mistress Yennefer sent champagne, and I’ve already gone and opened it...” There was a sigh, and the gentle clink of glasses as the tray shifted. “How stupid can you be, Mabel? Sorry, sir, I’ll just - ”  
  
“ _Wait_!” Jaskier had pried himself from the Witcher’s arms and shot up at the first syllable of the word ‘champagne.’  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes and flung his head back on the pillow, but as the bard scrambled out of bed and darted around the room in search of something to throw on, poked his head back up to watch with wicked amusement.  
  
“Hang on, I’m just - bollocks, whose _room_ is this?” Jaskier had opened the closet, frowning up at a vast array of elegant, flouncy dresses. “One of those will take _far_ too long to put on. Can’t very well answer the door naked. Where - where are my _trousers_?”  
  
Before he could remind the bard that he had quite literally chucked them in the fireplace last night, there was a playful, girlish giggle outside that had Geralt’s head snapping back towards the door, eyes narrowed.  
  
“Take your time, sir.”  
  
Jaskier snatched a knee-length, silk kimono from the closet and after a moment’s consideration, slipped it on, securing the ribbon about his narrow waist. It had billowing sleeves and was decorated with flowers of varying sizes, pink and orange in color.  
  
The effect was ridiculous, but Geralt found he had to appreciate the way the expensive fabric shifted open to reveal the scattering of soft, dark hair on the bard’s chest, the way the robe clung _very_ nicely when he turned around - particularly around his thighs, and his -  
  
Jaskier hurried over to the door and dramatically threw it open. There stood a young, pretty-faced woman - a maid by the looks of it, balancing a fully-stacked tray in her arms.  
  
From her slightly turned, slightly hunched position, Geralt thought it looked a bit like she had been pressing her ear to the door. When her eyes fell on Jaskier they widened, and her cheeks went bright pink.  
  
“Aha! My kind of breakfast!” Jaskier gently eased the tray into his own arms, relieving her of the burden. When he saw the look on her face he offered a kind, reassuring smile. “Are you all right? You know, you should _never_ call yourself stupid for opening a bottle of champagne. No matter the circumstances. It is _always_ champagne time. Really, the celebration is subsequent to the beverage itself, if you ask me.”  
  
She giggled again, lashes fluttering coquettishly - in all the mayhem, the shoulder of Jaskier’s robe had slipped, revealing the top of his arm, the large scar at the juncture of his neck. Her large, doe eyes were almost magnetically drawn to the spot.  
  
From where he was now sitting up in bed, arms crossed over his bare chest, Geralt raised a brow. He was out of sight, but could very clearly see and hear and _smell_ the girl’s blatantly obvious interest.  
  
“Yes, sir.” She lingered in the threshold of the door, tugging at the front of her apron. Her bow-shaped, pink mouth curved into a sly smile. “Every lady in the castle is gossiping about the handsome, dashing hero who saved the arch duke. We all wanted to see you for ourselves.” A hand slipped into her pocket, revealing a piece of straw. “I drew the long one.”  
  
“Hero? _Where_?” Ever slow on the uptake, Jaskier frowned, scanning the empty hallway behind her. When he saw no one, he paused. “Wait - do you mean _Geralt_? Not really a morning person but if you want to meet him, I can - ”  
  
The maid shook her head. He followed her gaze to the scar, eyes widening as he hiked the robe back up a bit. Unfortunately, that exposed him in other areas - eliciting _another_ fucking giggle - and he had to juggle a bit to make sure he was entirely covered before he spoke again.  
  
“Wh - you mean _me_?” She nodded, and Jaskier felt his cheeks burn. “D- _dashing_?”  
  
“Very. I think they’ll all be pleased to hear the rumors are true.”  
  
Geralt groaned as Jaskier’s whole demeanor changed. Of course he was eating this shit up. While Geralt knew he wasn’t actually interested in the maid, he _also_ knew Jaskier never passed up on the chance to talk about his own accomplishments. No matter how exaggerated.  
  
The bard quickly recovered from his initial shock, tried leaning casually against the door frame. As he did, the tray’s content’s rattled noisily and shifted to one side, slightly ruining his attempts at looking cool and collected.  
  
“Well, well. Happy to please. But before you go, can you - can you just tell me a bit more? I’d love to hear what the - the _ladies_ are saying, you know, make sure it’s all _accurate_...I take my heroics very, very seriously, you see.”  
  
“Of course.” Her hand reached out to adjust the tray, balancing it, before allowing her slender fingers to rest lightly atop Jaskier’s. _Give me a fucking break_ , Geralt thought. “They’re saying you fought valiantly to save his majesty. That your strength was so... _potent_ , it caused the throne room to collapse, and you used your mighty body to shield him and his wife from the blast.”  
  
_Gods save me_.  
  
“Yep, yeah.” Jaskier squinted over her shoulder, pretending to think back (because he knew it was complete and utter horse shit). “That’s... _true_. Exactly how it happened.”  
  
“And that you singlehandedly wiped out all the corruption in the prison, saving the innocents within from a deadly riot.”  
  
_Innocents_?  
  
The bard seemed to have the same thought, letting out a noncommittal “ehh” before catching himself and nodding quickly. “I mean, yes. All the innocent...criminals.”  
  
She giggled for a fourth time, and as Geralt watched her hand travel up Jaskier’s, disappearing beneath the flowing sleeve of the robe, he decided he’d had enough.  
  
“We also heard you defeated a gang boss. One of the Big Four. Nasty fellow, notorious around these parts for being as wicked as he was charming. Though I can’t seem to remember his handle...something about fingers?” Her blush deepened as she glanced down at Jaskier’s. “Not...”  
  
But Jaskier’s countenance had changed yet again, shoulders squaring defensively. Before he could shake it off, could send any fake smiles or smooth placations her way, the Witcher stood and stalked up behind him, clapping a hand on his back. He offered a sort of friendly, but mostly forced smile to the maid, who looked quite shocked at his sudden appearance.  
  
The fact that he was naked with only a very thin sheet clasped loosely about his waist probably added to her surprise.  
  
“Thank you for bringing us breakfast.” The hand on Jaskier’s shoulder discreetly moved down to his ass, giving it a gentle squeeze - the reminder of Geralt’s presence had instantly shaken all thoughts of Forle from his mind and he had to bite down very hard on his lip to quell any uncouth sounds. “But I think you’ve taken up enough of the ‘hero’s’ time.”  
  
She took it all in stride, though - giving Jaskier one last, flirtatious little grin before curtsying and hurrying off. When they were alone in the room once more, Jaskier sighed and set the tray down. It was piled high with strawberries, a pot of freshly whipped cream, a bottle of champagne and two tall, skinny glasses.  
  
“Phew. Good save. Did _not_ want to open that bag of worms this early in the morning.” He paused, lips quirking when he saw the way the other man’s hand was positioned on his hip, the corners of the sheet balled up in his fist to keep it in place. He looked _very_ sassy. “What’s that face for?” He gasped, unable to hold back a grin. “Is that - are you giving me a little _attitude_ right now, Geralt?”  
  
“You let that go on for quite some time.”  
  
“Well...okay, _maybe_. But I so very rarely get any credit for my involvement in our adventures. Can’t I just bask in it, just a teeny tiny bit?” The bard sidled up to him, snaking his arms about his broad waist. “I know what this is. You’re _jealous_ , aren’t you?”  
  
“Not jealous.” Picking up on the sudden change in mood, the Witcher stepped closer, tilting his chin to glance down at Jaskier. “Just making sure the dashing hero remembers whose lips he prefers to have wrapped around his - ”  
  
Geralt was abruptly interrupted by a loud banging on the door. Considerably more aggressive than the last. He cursed as the bard’s agile fingers slipped out from where they’d wandered beneath the precariously positioned sheet.  
  
“ - _knock_.” Jaskier finished miserably, groaning and resting his forehead against the other’s shoulder.  
  
“What the fuck now?”  
  
As soon as Jaskier opened the door, Annika barreled past him and stormed into the room without looking up. “Nice digs. Heard two maids whispering down the hall.” She perched herself on the table beside the tray, plucking a strawberry from the bowl and popping it into her mouth. “Which one of you idiots is the ‘hero?’ Because I suddenly know _far_ too much about your - ”  
  
“Annika.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest, speaking through a clenched jaw. “Come right in.”  
  
“Geralt. Cantankerous as ever, I see. Is that how it is? No, ‘thanks for saving our hides, Annika?’ Really, who do you think roused the arch duke from his little nap? Or should I say _coma_. And as for you, twinkle - ” She had turned to Jaskier, about to greet him with his least favorite nickname but stopping short as she took in the silken robe, its sleeves rippling dramatically in the breeze she’d created by beelining straight past him. After a moment, she started cackling. “What the _hell_ is that about?”  
  
“Not a fan?” Jaskier teased, not nearly as annoyed as Geralt - in fact, he found he was almost overwhelmingly relieved and happy to see her safe and sound. And, apparently, free to roam the castle. His demands had been heard. “I happen to think I look _very_ good. Ravishing, even.”  
  
She tilted her head to the side, green eyes regarding him fondly. “Yeah, I could see it. Pink just might be your color.” A shrug, but when she reached for another strawberry, Geralt smacked her hand away. “What is your _deal_? What, am I interrupting something?”  
  
“Well, no, not - ”  
  
“Yes.” Geralt growled. “Blessed privacy.”  
  
“Ah, right. Forgot you naughty ducks just got out of the clink.” She ignored his glare and quickly swiped another berry. Its juices stained her lips, which stretched into a mischievous grin. “Engaging in a little tête-à-tête? Well, that can wait. I’ve been sent to...oh, fuck. I’ve forgotten the clothes. Don’t suppose you’ll go to the tailor as you are - ”  
  
Just then, a ball of blue and white-blonde rocketed through the still-open door, practically tackling Jaskier to the floor. Geralt tensed, readying himself for a fight - when he saw Ciri, arms wrapped tightly about the bard, his gaze immediately softened.  
  
The sight of her momentarily made him forget how irritating it was that their room had suddenly become a hotbed of activity - and _not_ the kind he’d been anticipating.  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
“Ciri, my love!” The bard returned the hug, giving her a little spin that brought about a precious laugh. “This is turning into quite the party, isn’t it, Geralt?”  
  
“Quite.” When she turned to him, huge eyes scanning him for injury, he offered a small, uncharacteristically sheepish smile. “Ciri. I’m glad you’re safe.”  
  
She shook her head and launched herself at him - he had to work overtime to keep the sheet in place, but after that was done, he settled his free arm across her back and returned the embrace, burying his nose in her wild hair.  
  
“You had us so worried!” She drew back, floating over to the table and leaning beside Annika’s dangling legs. “The guards were _so_ hostile while the arch duke was unconscious. Trying to accuse Yen of _treason_ , saying she conspired with you to assassinate him. We had to keep hiding Annika in the bloody broom closet every time they came around the chateau. Bunch of fucking stuffed shirts.”  
  
Geralt shot Jaskier a look. The bard’s eyes widened and he quickly raised his hands before pointing accusingly at Annika - who was suddenly _very_ intently examining her own cuticles.  
  
Before he could chastise any of them, yet another intruder strode into the room. Yen, a large bundle of clothes in her arms, looking cross. However, when she processed the scene - Geralt and the sheet tied haphazardly about his waist, Jaskier and the robe, Annika and Ciri innocently munching on strawberries and chatting in the corner - she smirked devilishly.  
  
“Really, Geralt. This isn’t prison, you know.” She stepped further in, setting the clothes down on the table. “You could at least try to make yourselves decent before entertaining guests.” She turned to Annika and Ciri. “As for you - how is it I ask _one_ of you to bring them fresh clothes, and somehow, _both_ of you forget?”  
  
They both shrugged at the exact same time, murmuring vague excuses and explanations. Yen rolled her eyes, scoffing.  
  
“All right. Let’s give them some privacy, shall we?” She turned to Geralt and Jaskier, eyes gleaming. She was enjoying this _far_ too much. “Be at my study within the hour. In case you’ve forgotten, there’s a banquet in your honor tonight and my tailor refuses to service either of you without having me present. Something about you threatening to _curse_ him last time?”  
  
Jaskier unsuccessfully stifled a laugh at the memory. They hadn’t really, but in retrospect, he could understand how their words might have been skewed in that direction. The man had been _so_ scared.  
  
“Fine.” The harsh edges of Geralt’s words were considerably dulled by a very poorly-hidden surge of affection as he gazed upon the small gaggle of women. “Now get the hell out of our room.”


	57. Chapter 57

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This ended up being more of a lil collection of moments, felt like a nice way to wrap this arc up
> 
> And in this house we hate Valdo Marx, the troubadour of Cidaris, for no earthly reason. But really, how can he say Jaskier panders to the masses? His metaphors are CEREBRAL!

Within the hour, Geralt and Jaskier found themselves in the sorceress’s study. The latter was lounging on the arm of a chair while the former stood atop a pedestal at the center of the room, glowering down at the tailor who had fitted them both for the arch duke’s ball.  
  
“Mistress Yennefer, the - the large gentleman’s doing it again.” From where he was kneeling before him, the man peered nervously up at the Witcher, before casting another equally nervous glance at Jaskier. “And the - the smaller one won’t stop _laughing_ about it.”  
  
“You know he’s practically harmless, right?” Jaskier paused, considering something. “Unless you touch his things, or...well, okay, he’s a bit of a nightmare, but - ”  
  
Yen rolled her eyes. “Geralt, do stop _growling_ at the poor, dithering idiot. I know he’s insufferable, but he’s the best this city’s got to offer.”  
  
“ _Insufferable_?” the tailor blanched, squeaking when one of his pins nearly speared Geralt in a _very_ delicate spot. “ _Idiot_? Why, I _never_ \- ”  
  
“You forgot dithering.” The bard grinned, taking a large chunk out of a shiny, red apple from the fruit basket on the table. “If you’re going to dispute one of her insults, it’s best to address every cruel, demoralizing element. Tends to come back to bite. I’ve learned that the hard way.”  
  
Yen gave him a playful little pinch. She was seated in the chair he was perched upon, exhaustively elegant with her long legs crossed, raven-colored hair spilling out over one angular shoulder.  
  
“You’re not still sore about that, are you, Jaskier?”  
  
“Well, I wouldn’t be if you didn’t _constantly_ bring it up.” Jaskier prodded at the corners of his eyes, meriting a wicked chuckle from the sorceress because yes, she did bring it up - _very_ frequently. “I mean, _crow’s feet_? You know, I pride myself on my skincare routine. Take all the necessary preventative measures. Rosemary, clary sage, rose _absolute_...”  
  
She craned her neck to peer up at his face before leaning in and taking a whiff. “Don’t know about that, but it _does_ explain why you smell like a walking den of iniquity. And here I thought Geralt had a sensitive nose - ”  
  
“Yenne _fer_ \- ”  
  
“Will both of you shut up?” Geralt’s voice was a deep rumble, contrasting greatly to their much lighter, smoother articulation. “The more you speak, the less this prick focuses.”  
  
“Ah, you mean the terrified prick with a tiny prick aimed directly at your _lovely_ prick?” With his legs crossed, he tilted his head to look at the tailor over Geralt’s broad frame. “You better watch it. I happen to hold that particular prick in very high regard and I’ll be _very_ cross if you - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
Yen’s chuckle evolved into a cackle, and Geralt’s subsequent low growl had the tailor nearly jumping out of his skin.  
  
“Gods help me,” he muttered, working as fast as his trembling hands allowed, “you’re all insane.”  
  
By the time he finished getting Geralt’s measurements, there had been far too many jokes cracked about the increasingly agitated tailor and his ‘wandering little prick.’  
  
“All done, thank the gods.” Having abandoned his previous air of politeness and decorum, he abruptly turned to Jaskier as Geralt slipped his shirt back on and stalked off the pedestal. “Your turn. Shirt off.”  
  
The bard huffed and abandoned his apple, going about slipping his shirt off. He didn’t register the awkward silence that had fallen over the room until he reached the pedestal and glanced down, noticed the tailor’s wide-eyed gaze fixed directly on his abdomen.  
  
“Sir, I have to ask - ”  
  
“No, you don’t. Unless you happen to moonlight as a healer, it’s none of your fucking concern.” Geralt hissed from where he’d now taken up residence on the arm of Yennefer’s chair. “Just do your job.”  
  
As they usually tend to do before getting better, the bruise had gotten worse. It was plainly visible above the low-riding pants Yennefer had given him. The skin around it was now discolored, tinged with sickly green-yellow hues, and bright red dots had appeared amongst the purple at its core.  
  
Yennefer had swallowed her laughter, practically choking on it when she noticed the tops of the twin bruises on the bard’s back. Very clearly hand-shaped. She had the good sense not to say anything, immediately noticing the shift in Jaskier’s demeanor upon realizing what had drawn all that unwanted attention. Though she did regret not lending him a pair of high-waisted pants, she couldn’t have known the extent of the damage.  
  
“Last time you saw me I had nearly been rent in twain by a broadsword.” Jaskier, trying to lighten the mood - more specifically, deflect whatever feelings were bubbling up in his chest with humor - let out a good-natured laugh, gesturing to the scar curving around his left shoulder. “We _have_ to stop meeting like this.”  
  
To all of their surprise, the tailor looked up at him and offered what felt like a _very_ rare smile. “All right, sir. Stand still and I’ll get this done right quick.”  
  
He moved expediently, with far more care than he’d handled Geralt. Even cracked a few jokes with the bard. By the time they were done, Jaskier was smiling and the bruise felt like a distant memory.  
  
Until the door to the study slammed open, revealing a very irate Annika.  
  
“You’re not done yet? What’s taking so bloody long?” She traipsed into the room, stopping in front of the pedestal and scowling at Yennefer over Jaskier’s shoulder. “And will you tell that small, demanding child that I don’t need a fitting? I raised myself in a _cave_. I _made_ my own clothes. There’s no need for that to change now, and I’d _prefer_ not to have the hands of some two-bit - oh, shit.”  
  
“Well, _hello_ , Annika.” Jaskier gave a little wave, his other arm curling around his middle when he saw where her eyes had fallen. “All right?”  
  
“ _Me_?” She shook her head, tearing her eyes away. “What on earth happened? You look like you’ve been - ”  
  
“Annika.” That was Geralt. He was standing, arms crossed over his chest. The serious look on his face had her swallowing her words, saying nothing when he stomped over to her, clapping his hands on her shoulders and gently, but firmly, steering her towards the door. “Pretty loose grasp on the concept of privacy for a cave-dwelling hermit. Now get the fuck out.”  
  
“Was this _his_ doing?” She’d found her voice again, just before Geralt could slam the door shut on her. “I swear, if I see him again I will shove my boot so _far_ up his scrawny elven arse, he’ll be spewing - ”  
  
“Already done.”  
  
The Witcher gave her one last little shove before closing the door.  
  
As the tailor took the last of the measurements, Jaskier - who had lapsed into a thoughtful silence - cocked his head back to look at Geralt.  
  
“Did you really - with your _boot_ , Geralt?” He crinkled his nose, glancing down at the article in question. “ _That_ very boot?”  
  
Geralt snorted. “Fuck no. Waste of a boot.”  
  
“Well,” Jaskier’s voice was still too light, too _airy_ as he slipped his shirt back on, “think I need a very hot bath now. Skin-meltingly so. If you want to join, Geralt, maybe you can...er, tell me how you _did_ do the deed? I’m - I’m ready to know.”  
  
The Witcher offered him a hand, helping him off the pedestal. “If that’s what you need, Jaskier.”

♜ ♖

Once they made it back to the room, Jaskier got his hot bath - though Geralt took care not to heed his wishes, keeping it far below ‘skin-melting’ - and the truth about Forle’s demise. Something Geralt was now sure of, as the rumors circulating around the castle managed to reach his ears - the elf’s entire gang had gone underground, into hiding, after the body of their leader was discovered in the city prison.  
  
The fact that Forle was actually a member of the Big Four, that his loss would no doubt shake the community of the criminal underworld to its very core, was a shocking revelation that could wait to be dealt with on another day.  
  
Jaskier listened intently and with a brave face, but when it was done, sank back into the water, legs tangling with Geralt’s as he softly vocalized his regrets at how it all turned out. It seemed a part of him felt for the elf, had wanted to reach him in time and get him to see reason - though after centuries of merciless killing, of swaddling himself in a blanket of corruption and moral decay, the chances of that had been unlikely from the start.  
  
It was part of the reason why Geralt loved Jaskier, of course. Where the Witcher tended to see, very clearly, the pitch blackness of evil everywhere, the bard saw shades of gray. Saw the hidden goodness in people. He stubbornly searched for ways to coax it out - as he did with Annika - and when that proved unsuccessful, lamented over the loss, unable to comprehend the pain and suffering it would take to drive someone to such unspeakable acts.  
  
Geralt personally didn’t regret his choice, only the events leading up to it. He hadn’t wanted Jaskier to kill Forle in the throne room. Hadn’t wanted to do it himself. He didn’t enjoy killing, and sparing Forle that night had been his way of offering a chance for redemption.  
  
Not his fault the idiot decided to continue taking and taking from them until making the fatal decision of trying, yet again, to take that which Geralt valued most - Jaskier’s life.  
  
Nevertheless, regrets or no, he didn’t like that there was no immediate fix for this, that it was an incident that would no doubt linger on the bard’s mind for months, years to come.  
  
They discussed it at length, stopping only when a knock on the bedroom door signaled that their clothes had arrived. The sun had started to set, which meant the banquet would begin shortly.  
  
“You’re shitting me.”  
  
Jaskier, from where he was changing into his new ensemble, glanced over at Geralt to see what he was referring to. When he did, he nearly doubled over laughing.  
  
“Oh, Geralt.” Jaskier wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of his eyes. “Oh, lovely, _lovely_ , Geralt. Why are there so many _frills_? Is this how tailors exact revenge? Making you look like a - like a bloody _wedding cake_?”  
  
The Witcher groaned, placing the doublet down on the bed and shedding the robe he’d been lounging in. “Perhaps. Perhaps you and Yen shouldn’t have made so many remarks about his ‘needle-thin prick.’”  
  
“But - I was under the impression that we’d struck up an unlikely _friendship_ by the end of it, Geralt!” Jaskier peered down at the doublet again, spiraled into another bout of wicked amusement. “Friends do _not_ make friends wear things like _that_.”  
  
Geralt decided then and there that he would don a fucking jester’s outfit if that’s what it took to bring about the delighted grin currently plastered across the other man’s face.

♜ ♖

“Stop - stop _fussing_ with it, Geralt. You know, you don’t look half bad.” As they approached the banquet hall, Jaskier allowed the hand he had been adjusting Geralt’s collar with to wander quite a bit lower. “Like a...sexy, brooding cream puff. I think I could eat you right up.”  
  
Geralt glared down at him, but was unable to maintain the facade for long. He smirked, gesturing for the men at the doors to wait as he drew Jaskier in. Two broad hands settled below the small of the bard’s back, below the bruises, their hips clashing somewhere in the middle.  
  
“Could you, now?”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Absolutely. Down to the very last dro - ”  
  
Suddenly, the doors swung open and a member of the castle’s staff very loudly announced them by their full names. Seemed they weren’t very keen on waiting. Jaskier froze when he realized they were suddenly facing a crowd and very noticeably groping each other.  
  
“ - _puh_.” He popped the ‘p,’ his voice echoing terribly in the large vestibule they were standing in.  
  
Unfortunately, his eyes immediately spied Ciri in the corner, a hand clapped over her mouth - Yen was beside her, stifling a laugh before quickly covering the girl’s eyes with a gloved hand of her own.  
  
The rest of the banquet’s participants were not nearly as amused, but as soon as the ‘hero’ bit had been slapped on at the end of their introduction, broke out into a round of tentative, slightly confused applause.  
  
“ _Gods_.” Jaskier immediately extracted himself from Geralt’s wandering touch, slipping a hand into his and practically dragging him into the room with a forced grin. He spoke through gritted teeth. “Are they _really_ clapping for that?”  
  
Geralt followed him into the exquisitely decorated hall, giving his hand a light squeeze.  
  
“You did say you wanted to make a dramatic entrance.” The awkward silence that had enveloped the room quickly deteriorated, and he groaned as the music started back up. “I need a fucking drink.”  
  
“Make it two!” Jaskier called after him as he stomped away, hunting down one of the tray-wielding maids currently milling about the place. Though the banquet had been Jaskier’s idea, he hadn’t really thought about what such an affair might entail. A massive, noisy room full of people - the arch duke seated in a throne at the far end, booming voice spouting ridiculously exaggerated tales of the duo’s bravery.  
  
It was, actually, the very same hall where Jaskier - under the effects of Annika’s curse - had very explicitly requested...nay, _demanded_ that Geralt bathe in another man’s blood while he watched. Thankfully, he was no longer being forced to crave such terrifying predilections and that particular nobleman was nowhere to be seen.  
  
Before he could dwell on it further, the fiendish witch herself tapped him lightly on the shoulder from behind.  
  
When he turned to face her, he let out an audible gasp. While the tailor had utterly botched Geralt’s outfit for the evening, the same could not be said for the light green gown she was currently sporting.  
  
“Bloody hell...” He tilted his head to the side, poking at one of its bell sleeves. It was slightly understated, not nearly as dramatic as some of the other creations currently floating around them, but somehow still so fitting. “It’s _perfect_! The color matches your eyes so well, it’s like - ”  
  
“Shut up.” She smacked the hand away, jerked her head towards Yen and Ciri. When the young girl saw her looking, she grinned and gave Annika an encouraging thumbs up. “Blame those clucking hens. It all happened so fast.”  
  
Jaskier snorted, expression softening. Thinking about Forle earlier had put him in a strangely nostalgic frame of mind. When he thought back to how Annika was when they found her, so twisted and distorted by rage and pain...now, she looked almost happy. Perhaps a little resentful - and, okay, he _did_ question the combination of tulle and velvet - but happy, all the same.  
  
Different choices, different people, different paths.  
  
“You look radiant, Annika. I mean it.”  
  
She rolled her eyes, but he saw the hint of a smile behind it. One hand came up, pinched his cheek. “Not as radiant as you, little bard.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Not so little anymore, you know. I’m a _hero_ now, and all that.” As he waited for Geralt to return with the drinks, he crinkled his nose, finally taking a moment to focus on the music. “What on earth is that awful racket? It sounds like...like...”  
  
“Oh, he’s a total twat. Perhaps the most irritating bard to grace these lands. And I say that while fully acknowledging that you exist, and are currently gracing these lands.” She offered him her own glass, from which he took a grateful sip. “You won’t _believe_ the line he tried using on me earlier - ”  
  
“Oh, no...” Jaskier’s eyes settled upon the man currently singing at the center of the room, flitting about like a blasted butterfly. “No, no. Nonono. _No_!”  
  
“Give it - _give_ me the wine.” She snatched the glass back, watching as he disintegrated into a puddle of hysterics. “What’s the big idea? You nearly spilled my fucking drink!”  
  
“ _Marx_.” With that cryptic statement, he grabbed her arm, yanking her away as the handsome minstrel in question noticed him and gave a playful wink while singing something that very closely resembled one of Jaskier’s own ballads. “Valdo Marx, Annika. That’s fucking - that’s _him_! That, right there, is Valdo bloody - ”  
  
“Marx, yes. So you mentioned. What, you _know_ that clown? Of _course_ you know him. Tell me, who the flying fuck is Valdo - ”  
  
From behind - fed up with waiting, he’d ended up ‘procuring’ an entire tray of alcoholic beverages - Geralt’s voice was low and thick, having just downed a beer in record time.  
  
“Marx? The troubadour of Cidaris?” With the tray balanced in one hand, he sipped at a second pint with the other. His dry tone blatantly conveyed how indifferent he was feeling about the whole thing. “Shit.”  
  
Annika blanched. “Geralt, too? How is it you _both_ know - ”  
  
Jaskier shook his head, snatching a harder drink from the tray and taking long, deep sips. “Valdo Marx. He’s the absolute _worst_ , Annika.” Another head shake as he downed it completely. “This banquet is now shit because of him. He has _tainted_ it with his - with his _showboating_! Look at that! Nobody needs _two_ lutes. That’s - that’s preposterous!”  
  
“Oh, yeah.” A dark look overcame Annika as she tilted her head to the side, regarding Jaskier’s competition. The three of them had ended up crowded in a far corner, watching Valdo Marx prance around with one lute in his arms, another strapped to his back. “He really came prepared, didn’t he? What, did he think one would _break_? Hate him already. I got this. Hold my drink.”  
  
After aggressively shoving her cup into his chest, she picked up the long train of her dress and slunk away. Jaskier - not knowing what exactly she meant by that, not really thinking too much about it - continued prattling on to Geralt about the bane that was Valdo Marx.  
  
By the time she slithered back, looking like the cat that got the canary, they had finished nearly all the drinks on the tray. Geralt momentarily silenced Jaskier with a kiss before venturing out of their little misery bubble to score some more booze.  
  
What had started off as a banquet in their honor had quickly spiraled out of control, morphing into the physical embodiment of one of the bard’s reoccurring night terrors.  
  
And Jaskier was seated on a bench, arms crossed over his chest, looking incredibly dejected. Valdo Marx, who was hovering by a stool in front of the rest of the band, sipping from a glass of red wine in preparation for his next song, scanned the crowd before locating him and offering a winning, shit-eating smile.  
  
“This next one goes out to the _dashing_ hero, Julian Alfred Pan - ”  
  
Annika prodded at Jaskier, who was in an almost catatonic state. “Hey, Jaskier. Jask - _Julian Alfred_.” When he didn’t respond, she snapped in his face, which had him rounding angrily on her. “No, no, no. Shh. I made it all better.”  
  
“How could you _possibly_ make this better?”  
  
“Just sit back. Enjoy the show.” Annika grinned, waving to Valdo, who blew her a little kiss. “ _Ugh_. Fucking pig.”  
  
As he started strumming on the instrument, something seemed to overcome Jaskier’s competition. His mouth opened, ready to deliver the first verse of the song, but all that came out was a very loud burp.  
  
His eyes widened in shock, a hand flying up to cover his mouth, barely stifling another room-shaking belch. He tried to apologize, but no words came. Only increasingly disturbing bodily functions.  
  
There was a moment where it seemed that the attack had passed and he took a deep, steadying breath. Annika snickered beside Jaskier, who was watching the scene unfold with an unreadable expression.  
  
The witch cocked her head to the side when the other bard’s confused, slightly terrified eyes found her. After a moment, she blew a kiss in the same manner he had, with a flourishing gesture. Her voice was a low, dangerous whisper. “Come on, you boastful _arse_. Keep trying.”  
  
To his credit, he did. Very valiantly. But as he opened his mouth a fourth time, thinking the episode over, he vomited all over pristine, marble floors. It wasn’t just vomit, either - not of the usual sort. He threw up a barrage of toads and small frogs. They splattered wetly to the floor and he had to use his hands to yank out at least an arm’s length of seaweed, meriting several screams from the ladies who had been dancing around him.  
  
It continued like this for a few minutes before Valdo Marx hiccuped an apology and sprinted off the stage, abandoning his band and the banquet, leaving behind a trail of murky lake water.  
  
Jaskier had observed the whole scene in awe and once the minstrel was gone, turned to Annika with an expression of utter disbelief.  
  
“Annika! You - you...did _you_ \- ?”  
  
She nodded, shrugging casually. “Just doing my part. Ridding the party of an irredeemable creep. I could smell it on him. Don’t worry, he’ll regain his singing capabilities in about an hour or two. Or four. By morning, at the latest.”  
  
Wide, blue eyes regarded her with an undefinable amount of gratitude. It was too sincere and she scoffed, clearly made uncomfortable by the display.  
  
“You _sap_ \- it had nothing to do with you!”  
  
Jaskier grinned, nudging her with his elbow. “Oh, nothing at _all_?”  
  
“ _Fine_. It had the tiniest bit to do with you. But you know, you died in my arms less than two weeks ago. And you only just got out of prison.” Annika very purposefully didn’t mention what was on both of their minds - the bruises she’d seen earlier that day. “Thought you could use a win. Don’t let it go to your head.”  
  
Without warning, he threw his arms around her in a massive hug. She stiffened for a moment, before relaxing into his embrace, awkwardly patting his back with one hand.  
  
“That’s enough. That’s - _enough_ , already!” When she pried herself from his grip, she gestured to the far side of the room. “Now, you might want to go get your man. Seems he’s in a bit of a bind.”  
  
She gestured to Geralt, who was currently being bombarded by a large gathering of women. He was holding a fresh tray of drinks high over his head, scowling and wading through the fray as slowly as one would through quicksand.  
  
Before Jaskier left, he turned to Annika, resting a hand on hers. “Have you considered my offer?”  
  
He had pulled her aside earlier that morning, just after Geralt had forcibly kicked her, Yen, and Ciri from their room.  
  
She paused for a moment, before a slick smile crept its way onto her face.  
  
“You mean Geralt’s present?”  
  
The bard nodded.  
  
After a moment, she glanced across the room at Yen. “I have, but...she’s offered me a place by her side. To teach me. You know, some of her boring, _legal_ magic.”  
  
“Ah.” Jaskier smirked. “So, magic that doesn’t involve invoking demonic entities, mavkas, and ungodly amounts of toads?”  
  
“Yeah. Any magic that doesn’t involve toads is a crock of shite, if you ask me.” Annika’s hand rested upon Jaskier’s now, her cool fingers tangling in his. “But apparently, High and Mighty over there isn’t too keen on the idea of me romping about unchecked after all the...nearly exterminating an entire house business. I don’t know, something about me being a _liability_? The words ‘loose cannon’ were thrown around.”  
  
Jaskier laughed, thinking back to the chaos she caused. “I could see that.”  
  
“And I’m sure this little hex on your friend Valdo didn’t help. So...next time?”  
  
Giving her hand one last squeeze, the bard nodded again. His eyes didn’t leave hers - despite all of his teasing, his general playfulness, the tone he used was oddly serious.  
  
“Next time for sure.”  
  
She shoved him away, towards Geralt. “Go on, Jaskier. Save your lover from the masses. We’ll talk later.”  
  
With a grin, he released her hand and valiantly pranced off to rescue the Witcher. 

♜ ♖

“So _strong_!”  
  
Geralt growled, causing a few of the women surrounding him to draw back. The guttural noise didn’t seem to deter them very effectively, however, as they were back upon him moments later.  
  
“Did you really break through a stone wall with your bare hands?”  
  
“I heard that his hands were bound - that he used those powerful _legs_!”  
  
“Powerful _indeed_ \- ”  
  
“Are all Witchers as _handsome_ as you?”  
  
“Ooh, he is quite handsome! Look at that _chin_ \- ”  
  
They all giggled, their voices combining into one disastrously disharmonious screech in his head. The vast amount of alcohol he and Jaskier had imbibed hadn’t yet worked its way through his system, had him questioning whether or not it would be acceptable to sign them all back. Ending up in prison again wasn’t exactly a favorable outcome, but anything was better than _this_.  
  
“He could probably lift me with his little finger!”  
  
“You _wish_ , Bethany - ”  
  
Just as he was about to lose it, was readying himself to swat his way out in the same way he might escape a swarm of swamp flies, a blessedly familiar voice rang out above the near-deafening din.  
  
“Ladies, _ladies_!”  
  
Geralt’s head shot up in time to see Jaskier, carving a path through the crowd with a series of exaggerated, flamboyant bows. By the time he broke through to the center, he had worked up quite a sweat.  
  
“Who the hell’s this?”  
  
“The name’s Jaskier, and I - ”  
  
“So sweaty!”  
  
“ _Sweaty_?”  
  
“He reeks of booze!”  
  
“ _What_ \- ”  
  
Needless to say, it wasn’t exactly the reaction he’d been expecting.  
  
“Hey! Hey - I’m the other, you know, _hero_? Maybe you’ll recognize - ”  
  
None of them cared.  
  
“Think I saw him moping in the corner before that bard puked up all those frogs - ”  
  
“And he was all over the Witcher when they came in, what a _groupie_ \- ”  
  
“No, I don’t want his nasty little fingers anywhere near - ”  
  
“Bethany! What is it with you and the _fingers_ already?”  
  
Jaskier frowned at the group of women, grabbing the tray from Geralt’s hands and setting it down on the table against which they had both been cornered.  
  
“Listen here, you gorgeous.... _hurtful_ creatures!” Jaskier raised his voice and his arms, quieting the madness that had erupted around them. They all paused - Geralt as well - thinking he might have something important to say. After getting their attention, though, he pointed directly at a striking brunette. “Bethany, let me just say - these fingers were blessed by the gods themselves to produce music that has been referred to by not one, but _two_ queens as _utterly divine_ \- ”  
  
At that, the cacophony resumed as they bickered over who would get to dance with the Witcher first.  
  
“Bollocks. Tough crowd, eh, Geralt?” Jaskier nudged the man beside him in the ribs, meriting a scathing glare. “Oh, all right. All _right_. Don’t give me that look, you inebriated arse. I’ll get you out of this yet.”  
  
Deciding there was only one other way to stake his claim, the bard swiveled on one foot towards Geralt, grabbed both cheeks with his hands, and shoved their lips together.  
  
Silence fell around them and even though he’d really only been going for a quick peck on the lips, Jaskier found himself deepening the kiss as Geralt’s arm wrapped firmly about his waist and dragged him closer.  
  
When the group around them saw how naturally the exploration of each other’s tonsils evolved into a fairytale-worthy moment, with Jaskier’s foot popping up off the ground behind him, their initial irritation dissolved into a chiming series of ‘aww’’s. They immediately relented, and Jaskier smoothly grabbed Geralt’s hand, guiding him away from the table and towards the center of the hall, where other attendees were dancing.  
  
Though their vocalist had inexplicably been forced to excuse himself, the rest of the band continued playing for the banquet, settling on a mid-tempo song that allowed for a lively little ballroom dance.  
  
Once they were out on the dance floor, Geralt relaxed into the body in his arms. Without all of the screaming around him, he sobered quickly.  
  
“Don’t think Calanthe used the words ‘utterly divine,’ Jaskier.” A sly look. “Also don’t remember there being a second queen.”  
  
The bard scoffed, allowing one hand to settle in Geralt’s while the other maintained a loose grip on his broad shoulder. They danced easily - more so than the last time, at least - with Geralt keeping a close eye on the movements around them, occasionally spinning the bard in time with the rest of the dancers.  
  
“How long have we known each other, Geralt? You must have noticed by now that I like to _embellish_.”  
  
“And bask.”  
  
“ _Love_ to bask.”  
  
“And _tease_ ,” fingers dug gently into Jaskier’s palm. Somehow even that small, playful touch had him drawing closer. In a mockery of the bard’s accusation that morning, Geralt added, “you weren’t jealous back there, were you?”  
  
That earned him a scandalized gasp. “Jealous? Me? I don’t think I even know the _meaning_ of the word, let alone...” he paused, thinking back. Realized Geralt might have been right. It wasn’t a feeling Jaskier was familiar with - not a casual spurt of envy but something more primal. Perhaps the Witcher was rubbing off on him more than he realized. “Okay, you got me. An e-e-eensy bit jealous. _Maybe_.”  
  
Inexplicably, as they swayed, Geralt bombarded him with a soft, short kiss. The stubble of his freshly-shaved beard brushed against Jaskier’s jaw, the warmth of the breath from his nose heating lightly flushed cheeks.  
  
“Also...” Geralt drew back, nodded over Jaskier’s shoulder, “what the hell is that about?”  
  
Annika was surreptitiously sidling along the dance floor, deadly serious and occasionally darting out to grab a stray frog or toad before it could be trampled by the rest of the partygoers. There was a growing pile of them cradled in the bottom of her gown, all ribbiting softly, occasionally trying to leap out.  
  
Jaskier snorted and turned back, shaking his head. “Later. _Definitely_ a story for later.” 

♜ ♖

Two days later, Jaskier woke Geralt early with the promise of a surprise.  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
“Yes, my love?”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes beneath the hands currently covering them.  
  
“When you tell someone to close their eyes for a surprise, it isn’t usually followed by a fucking mile-long walk.”  
  
He wasn’t entirely sure where they were headed, but with his innate sense of direction, instinctively tracking every turn they made, he had a pretty good idea. Jaskier didn’t need to know that. His excitement was palpable, and he had very nearly blown the surprise before they’d even left the castle - if it weren’t for Geralt repeatedly quieting him with kisses, he probably would have done.  
  
From where he was trailing behind the Witcher, Jaskier chuckled. “We just got a little turned around. I have a terrible sense of direction, as you well know, and this city is a bloody _maze_ , and I - keep them _closed_ , Geralt - I promised to give you the perfect gift. This is me coming through on that promise.”  
  
After what felt like another eternity of aimless wandering, Jaskier removed his hands with a dramatic flourish.  
  
“Ta-da!”  
  
Geralt’s eyes fluttered open to reveal that they had made their way to the city docks. Before him, floating lazily upon sparkling, crystalline blue water, was a sloop. Perfect in size - not too big, not too small. Its bright, white sails billowed in the salty breeze, and from where he was standing not ten feet away, Geralt heard the pleasant creak of its wooden hull as the water shifted beneath.  
  
And the wood itself was birch, nearly white in color, with a smooth, glossy finish.  
  
“Jaskier...”  
  
The bard bounced in front of him, slightly obscuring his view of the gift. “Now, before you say _anything_ , I must inform you that this - “ he gestured wildly to the boat behind him “ - is no ordinary boat! She is a warrior, equipped with...I dunno, some important boat stuff, and...oh, the name! I have decided to name her after a very, _very_ special, very strapping - ”  
  
“Gwynbleidd!”  
  
Jaskier gasped, swiveling around to see Ciri’s little blonde head peeking out from the cabin. Her hair blew wildly in the wind as it picked up. When she stepped out, he noticed there was a worn map clutched in her small hand. The other offered him a cheeky wave.  
  
“ _Ciri_! You ruined my dramatic buildup, you absolute...ugh, _adorable_ menace.” He returned the wave, lowering his voice so only Geralt could hear. “Simply _cannot_ stay mad at that child for longer than a millisecond. Anyway, probably in poor taste, since...you know, we just killed an elf. But - _but_! It’s because you are _my_ hero. You saved my life that day. For the _billionth_ time. And honestly, it just rolls off the tongue. Once you learn to pronounce it, at least. _Gwynbleidd_.”  
  
He was pronouncing it very wrong, but Geralt didn’t have the heart to tell him yet.  
  
Actually, aside from uttering the bard’s name a single time, Geralt hadn’t spoken. Jaskier continued babbling nervously, trying to get a good read on the other’s mood as he did.  
  
“ - and, _and_ her previous owner was some sort of merchant so we don’t have to worry about any...pirate curses? Or...you know, _bad karma_. Unless he was lying.” He turned back to Ciri, who was idly spinning the wheel. “Ciri, dear! Do you think the nice man was lying about not being a pirate?”  
  
“He was _totally_ lying, Geralt! Right out of his arse!”  
  
Jaskier cursed her foul mouth, shaking his head. “Bollocks. You didn’t hear that. Well, anyway, um...you’re awfully quiet, you know. Have I missed the mark? It’s not another strawberry incident, is it? Are you...allergic to birch? You’re all _squinty_ , oh, gods, you are definitely allergic to - ”  
  
Having regained his composure, Geralt strode forward and fixed a hand on Jaskier’s hip. With the other, he gently nudged the bard’s chin up, gold eyes practically melting him on the spot with the intensity of their glare.  
  
“Not allergic to birch.”  
  
“Well, that’s... _good_. So, do you - do you like it?”  
  
“No.” Geralt cleared his throat, a strange feeling overcoming him as he looked into the other’s eyes. Not sure how to deal with the strong emotion, he diverted his gaze to the ship over Jaskier’s shoulder before speaking again. “Did you spend all your coin on this? What about your lute?”  
  
The bard snorted. “We-e-ell, okay, I wasn’t _that_ selfless. And I might have exaggerated the whole warrior thing, she was sort of a...bargain buy. A bit of a fixer-upper. Involved in a few collisions. One of her sails has a hole? I don’t know. It’s all a blur. Wait, did you say _no_?”  
  
The feeling intensified, practically burning a hole in Geralt’s gut now and for whatever reason it compelled him to lean in, to press a chaste kiss to the bard’s lips.  
  
“Yes. I mean, no. No, I don’t like it. I, uh, love it. And you.” After a moment, because in spite of previous statements, he really couldn’t resist a chance to make the other man red-faced and flustered. “But it’s pronounced _Gwynbleidd_.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gwynbleidd is the name given to Geralt by the elves (irl it’s Welsh): “ **Gwyn** " means “white” and “ **bleidd** " means “wolf" 
> 
> I was trying to hint that he almost teared up over the boat JUST FOR A SEC. Also the new location is...the coast! Nothing like a lil sunny, ocean-side mayhem. It’ll eventually lead to a larger journey, but I’m rly pumped for them to be total vacation bums having to deal with this new shit lol. It kind of felt like a goodbye to Annika but for those of you who like her, she’ll be back!


	58. Chapter 58

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: for someone who grew up like, literally BESIDE a coast, I don’t know shit about boats 
> 
> Also, Geralt and Jaskier are a little mean to each other, I’m sorry, I had to set the tone! Trouble in paradise, boi!

**5 Months Later**

It was a bright, beautiful day out on the ocean. Seagulls flew by overhead. The water was warm and sparkled beneath the late afternoon sun, almost blinding in its intensity.  
  
“Land, ho!”  
  
At the sound of Ciri’s excited shout, Jaskier - from where he’d been dozing, shirtless, atop the cabin after a day of diving for shellfish in crystal-clear waters - roused himself, sucking in a sharp breath.  
  
“Bollocks.”  
  
It seemed he had napped for far longer than anticipated, and now had the beginnings of a nasty sunburn on his chest. After nearly six months of living by the coast, a seemingly permanent one had taken up residence on his cheeks. Pleasant shades of pink and red bloomed across the bridge of his nose.  
  
The burn now decorating the rest of his body, however, was the sort that Geralt would probably have to treat with the lovely, soothing gel he’d gotten very good at whipping up. With the pleasant thought of cool relief in mind, Jaskier snatched the blouse he’d left drying on a rope and slipped it on before shimmying down the side of the cabin - seemed previously calm waters had turned, bringing some turbulence - and approaching the young girl at the wheel.  
  
Squinting out across the water, Jaskier could just barely make out the coastline.  
  
The village they had been staying in was fairly small, situated beneath a rocky cliff and elevated above the water. It was a port town, prone to tropical storms and populated by sailors, traveling merchants, and other sea-faring folk. From this distance, he could see brown blotches that he knew to be the docks, tavern, and bustling marketplace. People the size of ants milled about in the broad sunlight.  
  
The only problem was, they were advancing upon it rather quickly. Above, the sails rippled and billowed erratically, a suddenly strong wind beneath them causing the boat to pick up speed.  
  
“Sweet Ciri?”  
  
From where she was steering, the young girl peeked over her shoulder at him. Her eyes and hair stood out brightly against the tan she’d gotten over the last few months. She came and went as she pleased, occasionally traveling back with Geralt to Kaer Morhen or portaling with Yen to the castle.  
  
But there she was, having finished her lessons for the week, wearing a light blouse of her own, along with a pair of brown pants and high boots. It was an outfit Jaskier had purchased from the local clothier in preparation that morning, thinking it might allow for better mobility than her usual getup.  
  
“Who’re you speaking to, Captain Jaskier?”  
  
He snorted. “Apologies, _First Mate Cirilla_. Looks like we’re approaching a little fast, think you can slow it down a bit?”  
  
“How?”  
  
They were covering ground - or, in this case, water - at an alarming rate. People on the docks had started to notice the ship barreling towards them; a few scattered, and Jaskier thought he heard a couple of panicked shouts. The sight distracted him, made him lose his train of thought.  
  
“Huh? How what?”  
  
“How do I slow it down? How did you do it before?”  
  
“Well, you just...” Jaskier’s voice petered off as he glanced back at the angry-looking trail of white froth left in their wake. Panic hadn’t yet set in for him. There was no room for it on such a beautiful day, anyway. “I don’t know, we weren’t moving nearly as fast then, and - I’m not a _sailor_. There isn’t a...lever? A thingamajig?”  
  
“ _Thingamajig_? You...” She turned to him again, eyes wide and accusing. “You’re the one who suggested we go sailing - how do you not know how to _stop_? That’s a pretty key element.”  
  
“I thought _you_ knew!”  
  
“Why on earth would _I_ know? This is _your_ lesson! Last night, you said - and I quote - ‘let’s bring you out for some _sailing lessons_ on the morrow, you’ll become a master navigator yet!’”  
  
“I said that in jest, Ciri!”  
  
“In what world do people say things like that in _jest_ \- ”  
  
“I don’t know! I can’t keep track of every joke I make - now, quit playing around and stop the bloody boat! We’re going to crash - ”  
  
“I’m not playing - and I don’t know how!”  
  
Finally, the situation sunk in and Jaskier had the good sense to start losing his cool. With a loud curse he hurried over to the wheel, putting his hands beside Ciri’s and sharply veering left. If he could turn them around, buy some time to figure out how to _stop_ the damn thing...  
  
The boat hardly seemed to listen, was now skipping violently on turbulent waves - he heard a few things crash in the cabin from impact. _Prayed_ his new lute was not among them.  
  
“Why would you bring us out here if you didn’t know how to work a boat?” Ciri put her back into it, her added strength causing the sloop to turn slightly left. It barely changed their trajectory, which was still, unfortunately, the small village and all its inhabitants. “You’re always telling Geralt what to do when we sail, shouting things like starboard and...and parlay!”  
  
“Parlay is _pirate language_ , Ciri! I just like sounding official! I don’t actually know what I’m saying when I - ”  
  
Both of their increasingly agitated cries were interrupted when the front of the boat hit a particularly large break, Jaskier barely catching Ciri in time before the force of it could knock her overboard.  
  
“Oh, gods, the wheel - _ow_!” It was getting harder to maintain his grip on the thing and when they both let go, it started spinning violently, a testament to how quickly the situation had spiraled out of control. He backed away and gripped the mast, keeping one firm hand bunched in the back of the girl’s blouse. “Geralt is going to _kill_ me if we die - ”  
  
They were a few yards off the coast now, moving wickedly fast. With no one to keep control of wheel, the boat lurched and jolted, the horizon a blur on all sides. A deluge of water crashed over the railing, drenching them.  
  
Nausea overcame Jaskier as Ciri broke free from his grasp - he tried to stop her but had to clap that hand over his mouth, face turning an awful shade of green while he lurched after the girl.  
  
“Ciri, stay close - fuck, I’m gonna be sick...are we - why are we _spinning_?” He let out a miserable wail, gripping the outside wall of the cabin and watching as she grabbed the anchor and the coil of rope connecting it to the boat. “What is _happening_?”  
  
“Get it together, will you? We need to stop this thing.”  
  
Ciri, so remarkably quick on her feet, sprinted to the side of the boat with the anchor in tow. Her strong little arms easily lifted it, tossing it over the side.  
  
The rope nearly snaked around her slim ankle as it was fed into the water but she nimbly hopped out of the way before it could drag her down with it.  
  
While the anchor didn’t seem to catch on anything, the iron hook it was attached to groaned in protest, the rapid current trying its best to pull it free. It seemed the ocean wanted to overturn them, the boat now tilting dangerously to one side. She cursed and snatched a section of the rope, dragging it back - Jaskier gathered himself, moved to help her.  
  
“No, go - go steady the wheel, Jaskier, I can manage this. If we tip over we’ll be done for. Rip tides all around, this close to land.”  
  
Her voice was impressively calm. No doubt a quality passed on by her mentor. They had been training quite aggressively over the last few months, to make up for time lost. The bard nodded and, using any surfaces he could for balance, staggered over to the madly spinning wheel with all the grace of a blind-drunk sailor.  
  
“Ow - ow - _ow_!” His hands hovered over the device, its knobs occasionally smacking into his palm as he tried finding an opportune moment to grab onto two and hopefully regain control. “Bloody hell, watch the _hands_!”  
  
After more colorful cursing, he was able to get a secure grip. The blasted thing nearly yanked both his arms off, but he channeled all of his strength into stopping it, managing to right the boat with a large splash. It didn’t do anything to slow them, however, and he let out a girlish shriek when he finally looked up and saw that the docks were now dangerously close. Suddenly, a thought occurred to him.  
  
“Ciri! The - the - _sails_! We have to lower them!”  
  
Having secured the rope, she nodded. Closing them didn’t seem to have any effect, either. Perhaps if they had thought of that five or ten minutes ago. She appeared by his shoulder quick as could be, making him shriek yet again with how silently she approached.  
  
“We’re going to have to jump to land, Jaskier. It has to be at the exact right moment, or the impact could kill us. The waves below the docks are too violent. If we jump in, they’ll drag us out to sea. Or crush us against the rocks. Either way, not viable.”  
  
“You know all that but not how to park a bloody ship? And, by the way, what kind of child knows _any_ of that? What is he teaching you?”  
  
“Not a child.” She smirked. “Get ready.”  
  
“I don’t _want_ to, mini-Geralt.” Jaskier sobbed, releasing the wheel yet again. It didn’t spin as ferociously as before, though that hardly seemed to matter anymore.  
  
“On three, Jaskier!” Ciri dragged him towards the railing. They were less than ten feet away now. He considered running back for his lute, but instead focused on keeping them safe. He would use his own body to protect her if he had to. “One...two...”  
  
Finally, the anchor seemed to catch on something solid. Just as the boat made contact with the pier, an ear-splitting screech filling the marketplace, it came to a dramatic halt, swiveling until the broad side of it clapped against solid wood beams.  
  
The momentum of the sudden stop and collision, though not quite as destructive as it could have been, sent them flipping over where they’d been readying themselves to jump at the railing. Jaskier grabbed onto her as they were spat out, rather comically, into a cloud of dust on the path just past the boardwalk.  
  
There was commotion around him as those who had gotten out of the way approached slowly, taking in the extent of the damage. With a groan and a cough, Jaskier forced his eyes open and registered two heavy boots planted on the ground, inches from his face.  
  
Following them up, his gaze skated along a pair of muscular, leather-clad legs until he was met with the familiar outline of...Geralt, standing over him. Roach’s reins were clutched in a tight, white-knuckled grip and he was covered in some sort of brackish goo. The head of a cyclops was secured to the horse’s saddle, dripping alarmingly close to Jaskier’s sprawled-out arm.  
  
It looked like he had only just arrived. Slightly out of breath, judging by the occasional heave of his chest. The setting sun turned his face into a dark shadow, but Jaskier didn’t need to see it to know that he was scowling.  
  
Probably a good time to mention that their little honeymoon phase, the blissful bubble of cute flirting, lots of sex, and unconditional love, had lasted all of two months before the bickering started. And bicker they did. Frequently and quite similarly to how they used to argue, though perhaps a little more spiteful at times.  
  
They still loved each other, of course - being soulmates tended to have that effect. But there was a growing rift between them, made only more apparent by the Witcher’s habit of overprotecting, and Jaskier’s opposing habit of getting himself into untold amounts of trouble.  
  
“I see you’re back.”  
  
Geralt nodded before glancing at Ciri, who had tumbled right beside Jaskier. “Hurt?”  
  
She scoffed. “Like you need to ask.”  
  
“Good. Jaskier?”  
  
Jaskier rolled onto his back, limbs splayed haphazardly around him. “Sporting only a wounded ego.”  
  
With a heavy sigh, Geralt jerked his head back at the tavern behind them. “Will you get us a table? I need to have a few words with the bard.”  
  
Ciri offered Jaskier a sympathetic pat on the back before hoisting herself up. “Watch out. He only calls you that when he’s very, very angry.”  
  
“Brilliant. In case he decides to toss me into the sea, it was a pleasure not dying in a horrible crash with you on this day, Ciri.” He wasn’t yet ready to get up from where he’d landed on blessedly solid ground. “Oh, get me a pint, will you? Or two. Perhaps the whole cask.”  
  
“Aye, aye, captain.”  
  
As she tossed him a playful little salute and trotted off to do as Geralt asked and give them some privacy, Jaskier groaned, muttering, “ _too soon, Ciri_.”  
  
“Tell me, Roach...”  
  
Jaskier met the Witcher’s scowl with a disgruntled one of his own. “Oho-ho. No. Don’t you start. Don’t passive aggressively describe the situation to Roach in front of me like that. You know I _hate_ when you two gang up on me - ”  
  
Ignoring him, Geralt continued. “ - did I, or did I not, expressly request that the reckless ‘captain’ at my feet stay put for _two fucking days_ while I - ”  
  
“It’s been _three_ , Geralt!”  
  
“Right. Sorry for the misinformation, Roach.” The horse nickered, and somehow, the noise itself came off as very condescending. Geralt’s tone, on the other hand, was heated. “ _Three_ fucking days. I request that he stay put for _three_ fucking days and what does he do? He takes off on a boat he can’t sail and crash-lands into the docks, nearly killing - ”  
  
“To his credit, he _did_ know how to take off!” Ciri called back helpfully, hanging on the tavern door. “And steer! It was the stopping bit that really threw us for a loop. That’s when the screaming started.”  
  
A glare from both men had her rolling her eyes and slamming the door shut behind her.  
  
“The boat is _fine_ , Geralt. Barely a scratch on her.” With perfect timing, the sloop groaned as if in pain, the sound of snapping, creaking wood cutting through the thick tension of the moment as the waves had her damaged hull repeatedly bashing against an equally damaged pier. Jaskier tossed a glare her way, hissing, “just whose side are you on, anyway?”  
  
“It’s not about the boat, Jaskier. You put yourself in danger. Ciri, too.”  
  
“Which I had no intention of doing.” The bard finally stood, brushing himself off - plaintively ignoring the hand Geralt had offered. And no, it had nothing to do with the fact that the other man was absolutely filthy. “But three bloody days, Geralt. Did you really expect me to remain holed up in the inn like some...some prized _possession_? I’m not a vase. A little fall won’t break me.”  
  
The Witcher pointedly glanced down at a large scrape on Jaskier’s elbow. Skidding to a stop on hard, packed dirt had ripped through the paper-thin sleeve of his blouse, but the wound beneath was a light, slightly bloody abrasion at worst. When the bard followed his gaze, his frown deepened and he stubbornly stuck the arm behind his back to obscure the view from prying golden eyes.  
  
“I don’t doubt your intentions, Jaskier.”  
  
“Well, good. In that case, I’m just going to go - ”  
  
“I doubt your rationality. Your common sense.” Geralt narrowed his eyes. “Pretty much every decision you make.”  
  
Jaskier stopped short from where he’d been trying to navigate his way around the other man.  
  
“You don’t mean that. You’re angry - I get it. I’m none too pleased myself, so let’s just talk about this once we’ve both calmed - ”  
  
“No. Do you ever just stop to think, for a single second, about the consequences your actions might have? On yourself?” Geralt stepped up to him, his voice low and dangerous. “On others?”  
  
“That’s not _fair_ \- ”  
  
“You’re right. It’s not fair. The way you fling yourself from one blunder to the next isn’t fair. Your self-destructive, impulsive tendencies aren’t fucking fair - ”  
  
“Impulsive? You want to talk to me about being impulsive?” Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest. If Geralt wanted to push him, so be it. He would push right back. “Tell me, Geralt, how _impulsively_ did you make the decision to leave three days ago - conveniently, right after we fought? I wanted to go with you. I _told_ you I did. We used to do that stuff _together_. You know, ever since we got here, you’ve been leaving me behind more and more, treating me like a _child_ \- ”  
  
“Damn it, Jaskier - because you _act_ like one!”  
  
The bard opened his mouth to fire something back but stopped abruptly when he processed what had been said. Different from their usual banter, Geralt had said it with the same ferocity as he’d wished Jaskier out of his life on that mountain.  
  
After a moment, the bard closed his mouth, trying his best to act like those words hadn’t cut him deeply.  
  
“Fine, Geralt.” He released a shaky breath. “Now, if you’re quite finished, this child is going to the pub. Ta.”  
  
With that, he spun on his foot and stomped off. Geralt cursed, feeling the powerful urge to punch or stab something. Glanced over at the boat, scanning it for any fatal damage. There was none. A few dents, a couple of holes. Nothing low enough to sink it. Nothing that couldn’t be fixed.  
  
He nodded to the sailors who were currently guiding her to the main dock, working on securing her so she wouldn’t wander off. With a grunt, followed by another obscene curse, he headed to the stables to set Roach up before turning in the cyclops head and joining the others in the tavern. 

♜ ♖

As Geralt stormed in and beelined past their table at the center of the tavern to order some grub, Ciri turned to Jaskier, placing a hand over his.  
  
“If it makes you feel any better, he made me stay behind, too.”  
  
That earned her a groan, the bard slamming his head down into his arms on the table, which was shortly followed by a sad, soft “ouch.” When he spoke again, his voice was muffled.  
  
“I appreciate you trying, Ciri, but let’s be honest with ourselves - he left you behind to _protect_ me.”  
  
She looked like she was about to dispute that, but after a moment, sighed. “He did mention something like that before taking off.”  
  
They quieted as the man in question stalked back over to them. He wordlessly shed a few layers and hung them on the chair before sitting down - it was late winter by then, and while the coast remained warm year-round, other parts of the land were blanketed in snow, suffering from a particularly brutal cold front. He’d been forced to travel farther north than expected while hunting the rampaging cyclops, though the coin he procured from the innkeep made it well worth.  
  
Surreptitiously, as he watched Geralt settle in, Jaskier slipped a hand into his own pants pocket. He allowed his fingers to curl around the small, black pearl he had scavenged from an oyster earlier that day. The one he’d held his breath for ungodly amounts of time to find.  
  
Well, any pearl - the fact that it turned out to be such a rare color was only icing on the cake, and he had been hoping to offer it up to the Witcher as an apology for any hurtful words he might have said before the other man took off on his hunt.  
  
The gesture felt stupid now. Pointless, like slapping a bandage on an internal injury. With a sigh, he released the bauble, letting it fall to the bottom of his pocket once more.  
  
Before Ciri could interrupt the awkward, tense silence, the owner of the tavern approached their table with several plates of food and an envelope.  
  
“Letter came for you today,” he set the plates down, passed the envelope to Jaskier, “by raven.”  
  
Thankful for the distraction, he quickly tore it open.  
  
“Raven?” Geralt, mouth full of bread. He chewed aggressively, with a distant, brooding expression on his face. “Yen?”  
  
“Annika.” The bard squinted at its contents, nose crinkling when a small object fell out of the envelope and into his lap. “Ugh. What is _this_ creepy thing? _Yuck_.”  
  
He gingerly held up a bundle of sticks and herbs that had been fashioned into some sort of totem. It was wrapped in twine, held the vague shape of a human body.  
  
Geralt inhaled deeply through his nose. “Dried rosemary...wood betony...” Another sniff. “Hyssop.”  
  
“Bless you. Anyway, she says...” blue eyes scanned the letter, ignoring Geralt’s vexed protests informing him that it wasn’t a sneeze, it was a _plant_ , “she had a bad feeling, something about our connection. I should keep this on me at all times, for...safety? Oh, that’s just - bloody wonderful timing, Annika. What is this, Jaskier’s personal guard?” He glared up at Geralt and Ciri - one returned it with a fierce glare of his own, while the other sheepishly shrugged her shoulders. “You all do realize that I, against all odds, have managed to go...” he paused, decided against revealing his age, “a _number_ of years without dying? Well, more than once. Dying more than once.”  
  
“You want a fucking award?” Geralt furrowed his brow. His voice was still gruff, still laced with residual anger from their fight. Though he silently cursed himself for it, for his cruel words, he couldn’t seem to stop. Fights with Jaskier did that to him, made him feel as petulant as a child himself. “What kind of bad feeling? Specifics, Jaskier.”  
  
Ignoring the jab and the obvious impatience in the other man’s tone, Jaskier skimmed through the rest of the letter, murmuring nonsense words to himself as he did. Once he reached the end, he glanced up at the other two with far less anger - the pleasant, sunny glow of his cheeks barely concealed the fact that underneath, he’d actually gone quite pale.  
  
“She just says something’s coming.” He looked down at the bundle in his hand. Annika had a great many qualities, but he knew she wasn’t one for superstition or needless dramatics. “That we - Geralt and I...we’re in grave danger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> village ppl as jask and ciri approach very fast from very far away: lower the SAILS MAYBE??


	59. Chapter 59

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ohh my gosh I’m so sorry for the two day delay on this one!!! But here it is, and we’re now back to regularly scheduled programming :) I think that’s the longest I’ve gone without updating in like...three months? Wild! Honestly just didn’t feel so hot, hope you and your loved ones are safe and healthy <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Been marathoning love island and too hot to handle so...hope it’s not rubbing off too hard here lmfao

“Geralt! This is ridiculous, I’m all wet and I - stay away! I only just got back on board, you menace. Give me a bloody _minute_ , will you?”  
  
Jaskier swiftly scampered away from the other man, who was pacing back and forth before him, sleek and cat-like and so very _predatory_. The bard stopped only when his back bumped into the railing; with an exhausted whimper, he glanced over his shoulder at the water lapping lazily against the side of the boat. He was wielding a sword - Geralt’s steel sword, to be exact - and still soaking wet from the rather unexpected plunge he had just taken.  
  
Curious about their new vacation spot and eager to have some time alone, they had sailed out that morning and anchored a few yards off an isolated beach. How their lovely little day trip had evolved into an impromptu, sexually-charged training session was beyond the bard entirely but there they were, down to their pants, both gleaming with sweat and salt water as the intense afternoon sun bore down upon them.  
  
“What’s the matter, Jaskier? Too rough?”  
  
Geralt playfully tilted his head to the side, regarding the drenched bard with a shit-eating smile. That expression - combined with the Witcher’s shirtless-ness- _ness_ , the ragged edges of his voice - had Jaskier blushing, his grip faltering. Geralt snorted and used the silver sword clutched in his hand to nudge the other man’s weapon back into a defensive position.  
  
“Keep your guard up. Knees bent. Remember to angle your body, makes for a smaller target. I’m going to charge again.” Another smirk, and gods, did Geralt’s ridiculously well-formed pectoral muscles twitch and flex like that _every_ time he spoke? A distracting, unfair advantage, if you asked Jaskier. “Try not to jump overboard this time.”  
  
“N-n-no, no, it’s all right, I’m good on that, thanks. Had my fill of nearly drowning for the day, so let’s - ah! Ger _alt_! Be gentle!” Jaskier yelped and dove out of the way as the other man lunged, swinging at him. Though he knew that blade would never make contact, it seemed to come dangerously close, missing his head by barely an inch. “Parlay! I - I invoke parlay!”  
  
“Focus, Jaskier.” Geralt grunted, spinning on his heel and facing his terrified trainee - he slowed his movements to allow Jaskier to register them and his next blow made a wide arc through the air before gently meeting the other’s blade with a light _tap_. “And stop trying to ‘invoke parlay’ every time I take a swing at you. We’re not pirates.”  
  
He applied a bit of pressure, watching as the bard glanced down to where their swords were touching, waiting to see if he would use any of the moves Geralt had taught him. He didn’t - instead, he untangled his blade and hustled back a few steps, putting a foot of space between them.  
  
“Oh, we’re not?” Jaskier flashed him a stupid grin that was _definitely_ not responsible for the sudden wave of affection and lust that crashed over him. “Then why are you so obsessed with my booty? Okay, okay, _okay_! Bad joke - bad _joke_! I get it! Ow!”  
  
Geralt had closed the space between them yet again, catching the steel blade with his own, the reverberations it sent down to the pommel staggering Jaskier. With one easy movement, the Witcher drew his sword down the length of the other’s before flicking it across the deck. It slid all the way to the railing, stopping short just before it could tip over the edge.  
  
“Did you say ‘ow?’ I didn’t touch you. And why are your eyes closed?” Geralt shook his head, clearly amused. “As soon as you’re able to disarm me, we’ll stop for the day. You can do it, Jaskier. Remember the steps.”  
  
Jaskier groaned and nodded, retrieving his sword. He was a quick study when he wanted to be, and already he wielded the blade with far more confidence than when they first started. The key word there was _when_ , however, which was next to never when it came to training for any sort of combat.  
  
As Geralt initiated the next exchange, taking care not to overwhelm with needlessly complex movements, Jaskier did quite a bit of yelping and cursing but was able to meet each slowed-down thrust with one of his own.  
  
“Wait for an opening.” He gently knocked the bard’s blade away when he clumsily tried replicating Geralt’s disarming motion, earning a frustrated huff. “Learn your opponent’s weaknesses. Exploit them whenever you can. No shame in fighting dirty, especially when you’re outclassed.”  
  
It continued like this for a long while - they danced along the deck until the bard was a panting, sweating mess. Geralt had to work overtime to ignore the way the smaller man seemed to be coming slightly undone: the soft sounds he made each time their blades met mid-swing, the bright-pink flush of his cheeks, the thick fringe of dark lashes drawing out the brilliance of those electric blue -  
  
Gold eyes settled upon his parted lips as the Witcher delivered another blow. It was only for a split second but Jaskier seized the distraction and managed to slip his sword into one of Geralt’s wider openings. With an overly-dramatic flourish, he wrapped his blade about the other and sent it flying. Behind them, he heard it clatter noisily atop the roof of the cabin.  
  
After that, he quickly discarded his own weapon and advanced upon the Witcher, whose face displayed an oddly satisfying mixture of pride and shock as he was crowded back against the railing. Two dexterous hands wound around Geralt’s thick wrists, securing them in place.  
  
“Hello, sailor. Think I found your weakness.” Jaskier purred, enjoying the fact that he had been the one to pin Geralt down - though he knew in reality, in a do-or-die scenario, the chances of that were nearly impossible. He pressed his hips further into the other man’s, grinning when he felt something hard brush against his thigh. Seemed the Witcher was also enjoying himself. A little too much, perhaps. “Now, is that a peg leg, or are you just happy to see me?”  
  
Geralt groaned at the shameless pirate pun. “Worst one yet.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? Sorry, can’t think straight. All this activity has got me at _full mast_.”  
  
If only to stop the onslaught of terrible jokes - not because those soft, smiling lips were so unbearably inviting - Geralt kissed him. His hands were still pinned to the railing and he allowed them to remain there, finding he quite liked the way it felt - his back to the ocean, the pressure of Jaskier’s slender, lithe frame skirting the fine line between holding him in place and threatening to send him overboard.  
  
He chased the bard’s mouth when he went to speak again, using his tongue to swipe a warm, wet path along the other’s lower lip, silencing what sounded like another crude, nautical double-entendre.  
  
“You did well.” Geralt broke the kiss between each word, grunting when Jaskier ground their hips together, the smooth wood of the railing digging into his back. His voice came out rough and raw, slightly broken. Music to Jaskier’s ears. “Very - _fuck_ \- very well.”  
  
“Ah, yes. ‘Very fuck very well’ is exactly what I was going for. So...what’s my prize?”  
  
“You can pass me the hammer.”  
  
Jaskier paused. “You _what_? Is that - is that code for something?”  
  
“Stop being a lazy shit and pass me the _fucking_ hammer, Jask - ”

♜ ♖

Jaskier woke to something being chucked at his head. He flailed, nearly rolling off the docks, his arms floundering in the air as he readied himself for a fight.  
  
When he looked to see what had assaulted him, his wide, startled eyes fell upon a soft, sweat-soaked black tunic rolled up in a ball beside where he had dozed off.  
  
Realizing that it had been a dream - a pleasant, wonderful depiction of a memory that now felt years, decades old - he sat up in a cross-legged position and glanced over at the boat.  
  
Right. The boat. He had been helping Geralt fix the boat.  
  
“Jaskier! I see your fucking boot. Did you fall asleep up there?”  
  
The irritated voice came from somewhere below. He frowned, scooting towards the edge of the docks and peering down. Geralt’s scowling face greeted him. He was shirtless now, sitting on a little swing they had hung over the railing that allowed better access to the holes left over from the crash.  
  
And it had been two days since _that_ debacle. Two days since they received Annika’s cryptic warning. Not much had happened, other than Yen coming to pick a very unwilling Ciri up and bring her back to the castle.  
  
No threats had revealed themselves as of yet, and without the young girl’s surprisingly sagely relationship advice, both men had spent the last forty-eight hours in brooding, terse silence.  
  
“ _No_.” Jaskier returned the scowl, grabbing the hammer from where it had been resting by his boot and passing it down. “Well, maybe. But I’m not sorry about it.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, grumbling something as he swirled back around, gripping the side of the boat to stabilize himself before hammering the wood plank in.  
  
With that job done, Jaskier thought back to his dream, letting out a soft, mournful sigh. That day had been so simple. After making sweet, sweet love on the boat, they swam to the beach and laid out in the sun for hours before moseying on back to the tavern. Dined on a surprisingly pleasant broth of seaweed and clams, drank copious amounts of surprisingly palatable rum. Jaskier, as was their agreement with the innkeep, then put on a show, winking at Geralt as he danced and sang a little sea shanty about an insatiable pirate king.  
  
So bloody simple. Almost irritatingly so, especially when juxtaposed with their current status - angry, resentful, both equally crotchety every time they spoke or even looked at one another. The songs he performed at the tavern were now bitter and melodramatic, detailing the life of a particularly _cruel_ pirate king.  
  
Geralt’s reaction to Annika’s letter hadn’t helped, either. He instantly blamed Jaskier, thinking he might have had a hand in whatever ‘grave danger’ loomed on the horizon. Almost laughable, coming from the man who managed to get himself involved in almost every political mess in the country -  
  
“ - _skier_!”  
  
Bollocks. Lost in his thoughts again. With a groan, he dragged himself back to the edge of the docks. “What _now_?”  
  
A hand thrust the hammer back to him, wordlessly gesturing that he take it. He did, clutching the tool to his chest and forcing himself not to think about the lovely sheen of sweat decorating the muscular arm attached to that hand, the broad chest attached that arm. All of it lead to Geralt’s sour mug, anyway, which immediately erased any and all interest. He averted his gaze, scooting back and staring up at the cloudless sky.  
  
“Geralt?” No response. “ _Geralt_?” He could hear the man moving around below, but still, no answer. “Geralt, Geralt, _Geralt_ , _Ger_ \- ”  
  
“Damn it, Jaskier!” He heard the rope creak as the Witcher abruptly spun around, back thumping against the hull of the boat. “ _What_?”  
  
“Do you think we’re being stupid?”  
  
There was a pause. The sound of something falling with a soft _plop_ into the ocean below, followed by a low growl.  
  
“Now’s not the time.” Geralt’s voice was stilted, and the bard could practically hear his teeth grinding as he spoke. “Pass me another nail.”  
  
Grudgingly, he did. “Right, yeah. Except it never _is_ the time, according to you. You call me a child, blame me for _all_ of our problems, and then retreat into one of your master-class brooding sessions. Have you ever heard of conflict resolution, Geralt? Because this is _not_ how it’s done.”  
  
Geralt’s back was to him once more. Without turning around, he stuck his hand out. “Hammer.”  
  
“Oh, brilliant.” He slapped the tool into Geralt’s open palm, perhaps a little too aggressively. “Gods forbid you and I have a healthy discussion about our _feelings_. Yes, Geralt. _Feelings_. You’ve got them, I’ve got them.” He jerked his head towards a stall in the marketplace, where two people were engaging in what looked to be a very heated discussion. “ _They’ve_ got them. Though, like us, they seem to be having difficulty expressing them in a healthy manner. Point is, if we’re going to make this work, we need to be open with our - ”  
  
“You want to know what I’m feeling, Jaskier?” Geralt swiveled on his little swing, talking around a nail that he had trapped between his teeth. “Annoyed. Annoyed at you. Annoyed at you because time and time again, you have proven yourself to be the most careless, thoughtless, _heedless_ \- ”  
  
“Oh, oh. Good.” Jaskier stood abruptly, placing his hands on his hips. “Honestly, if you ask me, that’s better than being the most boorish, high-horsed - ”  
  
Geralt spat the nail out, not caring that it followed its companion to a watery grave. “That’s not a _word_ \- ”  
  
“ - _pig-headed_ arse on the planet!”  
  
“Why the fuck were all your insults animal-related?”  
  
Jaskier threw his hands up in exasperation. “ _That’s_ what you focus on? Maybe because you behave as though you were raised in a bloody _barn_!” A pause. “Don’t tell Vesemir I said that.”  
  
“A barn? What, would you rather I behave like a - uh...” Geralt trailed off, ears perking. He clutched the hull, repositioning himself in an attempt to get a better view of the marketplace.  
  
“Oh, no witty comeback from you? How shocking. Suppose it’s time for us to go another _two days_ without speaking.”  
  
“Hold on, Jask - ”  
  
“No! You do not get to choose when and where I express my emotions!”  
  
A fight had broken out between the two people Jaskier had mentioned. It wasn’t particularly violent yet - only a few punches had been thrown, no weapons in sight. That wasn’t what had grabbed Geralt’s attention.  
  
His nostrils flared, assaulted by a powerful, overwhelming stench. Rotten. Plague-like. Fast-moving. The sounds of the scuffle, of Jaskier’s increasingly agitated voice, were nearly drowned out by its dizzying, nauseating potency.  
  
“ - and _another_ thing, you...Geralt, what the hell are you looking at? Hello-o-o? Stop _ignoring_ me, Geralt. I know you can hear me. You can...hear me, right?” Jaskier frowned when he saw the other man’s suddenly tense posture, the way he scanned the face of the cliff above the town as though searching for something. “Seriously, what are you - what is it?”  
  
He followed Geralt’s gaze but saw nothing out of the ordinary. A few swiftly-approaching dark clouds. The wind had picked up, which wasn’t unusual - storms were common in this area, violent and tropical, often dissipating as quickly as they’d come.  
  
Those idiots were still arguing. Actually, there were quite a few arguments happening in the marketplace. That was... _less_ usual, but not unheard of. The prices in those stalls were ridiculously inflated, after all.  
  
Geralt glanced down at his amulet, noticed it was vibrating violently, thumping against his bare chest. He heard movement, saw Jaskier squinting at the town, taking a step forward -  
  
Just then, the air seemed to grow thick and heavy, buzzing with something Geralt couldn’t quite place. There was a moment of stillness before one single, powerful pulse seemed to shake the entire town, the ocean beneath, the cliffs above. Similar to an earthquake, but...off. Otherworldly. His keen eyes tracked its movement as it traveled out in a wide circle from some distant, but central, location, barreling straight towards them.  
  
The pulse, like an incredibly large-scale burst of energy, wasn’t visible to the untrained human eye but as it swept through the marketplace, all of its inhabitants staggered. It was moving too fast, he wouldn’t be able to put up a barrier in time, didn’t know if it would do anything against whatever the hell this was -  
  
“Jaskier, get _down_!”  
  
Too late. It looked to be eye-level but Geralt felt it pass through him all the same. For a moment, his mind fizzed and sputtered as though something had gotten caught up in his gears, freezing all bodily functions.  
  
Couldn’t speak, couldn’t breathe. A lifetime of agility training had him dropping the hammer and grabbing onto the ropes on either side of his swing as he pitched forward, just barely managing to remain seated.  
  
He watched Jaskier stumble and reach out to grab onto the nearest pole for purchase. He missed by about a foot, woozy and discombobulated, hand swiping at thin air, boots squeaking noisily on slick wooden beams.  
  
This unbalanced him and, almost in slow-motion, he burbled some incoherent semblance of Geralt’s name before toppling over the edge of the docks.  
  
Accessing some adrenaline-fueled, last-ditch reserve of strength and willpower, Geralt forced himself to break the enchantment long enough to catch Jaskier’s slender wrist as he plummeted down to the rocky, frothy depths below.  
  
No time for relief. As soon as he made contact, a powerful zap of energy bloomed from the tips of his fingers, lighting up every inch of skin that was touching the other man’s. He thought he heard a startled shriek tear free from Jaskier’s lips - that let him know they were both feeling it, both experiencing the same sharp, painful, _tingling_ sensation.  
  
He grunted, tightening his grip on the bard’s wrist, trying to focus on supporting both of their weight even as the swing threatened to give beneath it, even as the agonizing feeling traveled up his arm, his chest, branching out through his entire being.  
  
It came to a head in the form of a jarring, invisible blast that sent them flying apart. The last thing he saw was Jaskier’s limp body careening down into the water before a shooting pain in his head made everything go black.


	60. Chapter 60

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I literally gasped when I realized this is the 60th chapter lol seriously, who writes this much?? What kind of person - oh, it’s me? The same person who accidentally chewed on (for like WAY too long) and nearly swallowed a staple today wrote 60 chapters? WORD???

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter I gave you “too rough”...this chapter I give you “too hard”, followed by a chorus of increasingly agitated “what the fuck”’s!

Jaskier was on the beach. There was a warm lap beneath his head and a large hand massaging his left shoulder. The joints there, though the wound had long since healed, tended to ache and tense up.  
  
Pre-Geralt, he had never experienced a real massage but they were a pretty common practice in Skellige, apparently. Those techniques, combined with strong, capable hands, usually resulted in a babbling, boneless puddle of bard soup.  
  
Jaskier sucked in a breath when the Witcher’s thumb dug deep into a particularly tender spot. The hand paused and Geralt’s gruff, deep voice rumbled from above. It rasped from misuse - they’d been sitting like this, in comfortable silence, for at least an hour.  
  
“Too hard?”  
  
The bard cracked an eye open, was greeted with a pleasing palette of liquid gold, snowy white, and the tawny shades of a budding tan on a broad, bare chest. Sometimes, especially after swimming in the ocean, Jaskier swore the other man sparkled.  
  
“No,” with a smirk, the bard teased, “never too hard.”  
  
“Hm. That so?”  
  
Satisfied that he was helping rather than hurting, Geralt continued working on Jaskier’s shoulder. They were on a large piece of cloth, less than a foot away from the ocean. The tide had progressively gotten higher throughout the day, occasionally lapping at his feet and Jaskier’s sprawled-out arm.  
  
After some time, Jaskier started squirming. He opened his eyes again, peering up at the calm, peaceful face above.  
  
“Can I try?” The hand left his shoulder and rested on the small of his back as he sat up. “You’re looking a little stiff, old man.”  
  
An eye roll. “I’m not that old.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Only about a hundred or so.” Jaskier grinned, crawling around the other man until he was seated behind him, legs splayed out on either side. “Don’t worry, you don’t look a day over eighty.”  
  
Geralt’s hands settled on Jaskier’s bare calves, giving them a gentle, playful squeeze. “Cheeky.”  
  
Greasing his palms with a little oil, the bard started working on Geralt’s shoulders. His fingers weren’t as strong but they were nimble, and slender enough to get into all the nooks and crannies. He found a stubborn knot near a larger scar and relished in the grunt that escaped the other man’s lips as he went about massaging it out.  
  
“Too hard?” Jaskier repeated, smirking when it earned him a chuckle.  
  
“No.” The Witcher’s voice had gone thick with lust. His hands slid up and down the length of Jaskier’s legs, eventually slipping under the hem of his pants. “Harder.”  
  
“Ooh, sexy voice.” With the knot dealt with, he allowed his fingers to glide down to the other man’s lap. “Maybe - and I’m just throwing this out there - _maybe_ we could put the oil to better use. See if it holds up. You know, for...for research purposes. For science.”  
  
“For science.” Geralt agreed, spinning around and catching Jaskier’s lips with his own. He eased him down onto the blanket without breaking the kiss, devouring the mouth below and smiling against it when he heard Jaskier blindly fumbling for the bottle of oil.  
  
The oil turned out to be _quite_ effective and in short order, Geralt was quickly discovering other clever ways of turning the bard into a cursing, moaning - though decidedly _not_ boneless - puddle.  
  
Adept at deciphering Jaskier’s incoherent babbling, he sped up the pace, grinding his stomach against the other’s to provide more friction while simultaneously, repeatedly reaching the spot that made him see stars.  
  
It was all too much - spouting colorful obscenities, the bard screwed his eyes shut, latching onto Geralt’s neck, almost painfully close to -  
  
Suddenly, the body in his arms tensed and the heated grunts and growls and wonderfully hoarse chorus of ‘fuck’’s were replaced by a guttural choking sound. Cold water splashed Jaskier’s face and he froze, opening his eyes. What a shit time for the tide to reach them, honestly, could Mother Nature not wait one more _bloody_ minute -  
  
It wasn’t the tide. Above him, Geralt had removed his hands from the bard’s shoulders, had reared back, a horribly confused look on his face. His nails clawed at his neck, the veins of which were bulging, throbbing. He seemed to be choking on something but when he opened his mouth to speak, a deluge of water escaped his lips, crashing down on Jaskier, soaking him.  
  
“Fuck, what - Geralt, what’s happening?”  
  
Over the other man’s shoulders, he saw a massive blue wall. But it wasn’t a wall, it was a gigantic wave. He screamed, clutching Geralt with a vice-like grip, terrified by the way he was sagging into him, no longer choking but seizing terribly, convulsing in a way that told him death was imminent.  
  
The wave crashed down upon them, bringing with it an impenetrable darkness.

♜ ♖

Another distorted memory. Just as vivid as the last, though that ending was far less pleasant than what he remembered. All at once, Jaskier came to, gasping and thrashing violently. The real world felt like a punch to the gut and he couldn’t breathe. Water in his lungs. His eyes wouldn’t open.  
  
Feeling strangely heavy, he lurched to the side, hands scrabbling at the solid ground beneath him as he spit up what felt like the entire sea.  
  
“Are you all right? Some fucked shit happenin’. Everything’s gone topsy-turvy.” A man’s voice, heavily accented. Sound came back slowly, slightly distorted. He sagged back against the ground, rolling his head to either side to clear out the water in his ears. Why was he so cold? What was that bitter chill? They were on the coast, last he checked. Ever-warm, as advertised. “Don’t worry. We’re fishin’ your little friend out now.”  
  
Where was he? What happened? There had been that sudden blast of energy, then pain, then cold. Then his dream and - and ‘little?’ Was this man talking about _Geralt_? Did he have _eyes_?  
  
Finally, he managed to open his own. There were a few blurry faces hovering above him, but when they saw his eyes flutter open, they hurried back a few steps. Almost like they were scared. Not a reaction he was accustomed to - did he really look that dreadful? Certainly didn’t feel amazing.  
  
There were a lot of voices around him, some arguing, some crying. Annoyingly loud, as though they were shouting in his ear.  
  
The sky was no longer blue. It was white, almost blindingly so.  
  
Something cold and wet landed on his cheek and he squinted, noticed it was snowing. Though it explained the sudden cold, it never snowed on the coast. To top it all off, now that his eyes were adjusting to the brightness, he realized he _recognized_ some of these people. They were definitely still in the village.  
  
There was a loud splash and a louder thump, followed by panicked cries of, “he’s not breathing!”  
  
A flurry of activity had Jaskier sitting up, still feeling so odd, so heavy, but panic and concern for Geralt’s safety replaced all other thoughts. He got to his feet, stumbling a bit as he ran to the edge of the docks. People were crowded around a body. Why did everything suddenly seem smaller? And sharper...had his eyesight inexplicably gotten better?  
  
“Ger - ah - _alt_?” Too deep. Not his voice. It tickled his throat, rough and gravelly. With a frown, he glanced down at his hands. Too _large_. So many scars and callouses. Definitely not his hands. “Oh, what the _fuck_ is this now? Did we switch _hands_?” One of those hands flew up to his mouth. “Ew - and _voices_?”  
  
No time to dwell on it. Geralt was being flocked by people, was apparently not _breathing_. What was that awful smell? Like rotten...no. Focus.  
  
Jaskier pushed past them, though he didn’t really need to - as soon as he approached, they scattered, shooting him nervous glances. Quite rude.  
  
That was when his eyes fell on the motionless, drenched figure. He shrieked and nearly fell over, clutching his chest with those bloody ham hands, stammering out a soft “what the f- _fuck_?”  
  
There, lying on the docks, was his own body. Pale and unmoving. Soaked to the bone. But it was him, down to every last detail. The scar on his shoulder, peeking out from where the blouse he had chosen to wear that morning had slipped. The sunburn on his nose, the healing scrape on his cheek from getting catapulted out of the boat two days ago.  
  
He couldn’t even take a moment to appreciate the fact that he looked damn good in that outfit because oh, yeah, he wasn’t _breathing_. And where was Geralt?  
  
He dropped to his knees before the body, hands fluttering nervously around its face. His face. He - his body, the one literally sprawled out in front of him - hadn’t moved an inch.  
  
Trying not to give it too much thought, he drew closer, holding this strange, other Jaskier’s nose closed and pressing their lips together. He blew short puffs of breath, two at a time, stopping occasionally to listen.  
  
It was terribly loud, difficult to focus - he could hear every gasp, every word spoken, every _pulse_ with a maddening degree of accuracy. It took everything in him not to dive right back into the ocean, if only to escape the cacophony for one blessed moment.  
  
Finally, during his last round of rescue breaths, the body beneath him choked and sputtered to life. The Jaskier replica pitched to the side, coughing up a large mouthful of water before groaning, clutching its head, cursing loudly.  
  
Narrowed blue eyes, red and irritated from the salt water, glared at the small puddle for a moment before flitting up to him.  
  
The expression he saw on his own face was strange, a mix of detachment and irritation that he had only ever seen on one very cantankerous individual. But when those eyes registered him, they widened.  
  
“What the fuck?”  
  
Jaskier frowned. It may have been his own voice, but that particular intonation and the subsequent _brow quirk_ were far too familiar, but in a very weird way. “ _Geralt_?”  
  
“Jaskier?” He cringed at the high pitch of his voice as he sat up, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight of his own body kneeling before him. His own face, twisted up in an uncharacteristically terrified, wide-eyed expression. “What the _fuck_?”  
  
“I don’t know! I woke up, I sound weird, and you - me - we? - nearly _died_ and - and - Geralt look at my _hands_!” He shoved them in the other man’s face, shrieking when he caught sight of them again. “Fuck, Geralt, these are your hands, aren’t they? And I - and your _voice_ \- ”  
  
“That’s my whole fucking body. What is this? What happened while I was out?”  
  
“Right, body... _body_?” Jaskier’s hands darted around his own suddenly _very_ muscular frame, for the first time since he had regained consciousness. Oh, no. His voice rose several decibels in panic, but it still sounded _wrong_ , so deep and foreign on his lips. “Fuck, fuck, this is so irredeemably _fucked_ , Geralt, I can’t breathe - why does your body _breathe_ so weird, it’s so _slow_ , what’s - ”  
  
“Calm down.”  
  
Those blue eyes, his own blue eyes, narrowed down to slits once more, scanning the docks. His little nose sniffed the air tentatively. Outside of his own frantic exclamations, people were fighting. Accusations of body-snatching, which meant it didn’t just effect them. It was snowing, too, which let Geralt know that nature itself had been impacted by whatever had just happened. Not good.  
  
“Some sort of enchantment. Powerful. Don’t know the radius yet.” He scowled, still sniffling. “What’s wrong with your nose? Can’t smell shit.”  
  
“ _Allergies_.” Jaskier sobbed, tangling his hands in his hair and then yelping and releasing it when he felt how long it was. “How can you tell me to calm down? I feel like you’re not comprehending the situation. Are you in shock? I mean, this - this is _terrible_ \- ”  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt fixed his hands on the other’s shoulders, his serious expression looking somewhat ridiculous on the bard’s face. “Hey. _Hey_. Listen to me.” Jaskier whimpered before slowly nodding. His breathing was erratic, not accustomed to Geralt’s slow pulse. Trying to adjust to the bard’s rapid heartbeat, he took a deep, steady breath before speaking again. “Calm the fuck down, and shut the fuck up.”  
  
“Oh, that’s just - and here I thought you had something to _offer_ , something helpful, I mean...why are you _like_ this? We’ve just switched bodies, Geralt, I think it’s pretty justifiable that I’m - ”  
  
Suddenly, a strangely amplified _whistling_ sound caught Jaskier’s attention. Before he could react to it, Geralt’s eyes were widening and he used his grip on the bard’s shoulders to roll them both haphazardly to the side.  
  
The docks were hard and unforgiving beneath Jaskier, his head smacking against them painfully as they rolled dangerously to the edge. When he looked to see what had flown by his ear, he saw an arrow protruding from the wood beam Geralt had just been sitting on.  
  
Jaskier’s first instinct was to cover his head, to curl up into a little ball, but Geralt’s hands were now dragging him away, his own voice above growling out an endless, annoyed string of expletives.  
  
“Jaskier - you idiot, we’re under attack. You need to move.” A groan as he lugged the larger body, not used to its weight or the sudden weakness of his arms. “Will you get up?”  
  
He did, with considerable effort, cursing Geralt the whole way. He wasn’t entirely sure what was happening, but he smelled something very off. Rancid.  
  
He certainly didn’t expect to turn around and find himself faced with several masked attackers, each of which were clearly armed to the teeth and had eyes only for the duo who had been left floundering and confused on the docks.  
  
“Oh, fuck me - _Geralt_! What’s with the creepy masks? Do you _know_ these people?” Jaskier scooted behind Geralt, which...looked a bit ridiculous, no doubt. He coughed into his hand and attempted to clear his throat. “Are you always this hoarse? I need a bloody loz - ”  
  
“Shut up, Jask - ”  
  
“Look, sir.” One of the men nodded to the snow falling from the sky, to the crowd of people panicking and shouting at each other. “Wasn’t just them.”  
  
“I see it. We’ll deal with it later. Now kill the bard, and take the Witcher. They need him alive.” Obviously the man calling the shots. He had on a slightly more intricate mask, spun from purple silk and interwoven with gold. Unknown, dark eyes regarded Jaskier coolly. “Shouldn’t put up too much of a fight.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes I did just freaky friday them, why do you ask?? I swear it’s more complex than that and they won’t spend the whole arc in each other’s bodies, I SWEAR! Because while I personally find it hilARious, I know the concept might be a lil difficult to visualize lolol I’ll do my very best to describe it though. And heeeey, now they’re closer than ever! How mad is jask gonna be when he tries singing? We’ll find out! 
> 
> Ok, that’s enough from me! :)


	61. Chapter 61

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I did NOT mean for the fight sequence to go on for so long lol sorry to thrust you guys into this situation with like less than a sec for them to acknowledge that they switched bodies. But next chapter is already CHOCK FULL O THAT! Let this be a testament to how little control I have over what happens in the fic! We are on this wild ride together, my friends!

At their supposed leader’s command, the masked strangers brandished their weapons and approached the duo. The dock was to Jaskier and Geralt’s backs, the water still frighteningly turbulent from whatever large-scale magic had just been unleashed upon the small village.  
  
Snow was falling steadily now, piling at their feet and making the wood beams beneath dangerously slick. In the backdrop, villagers were either running from the disturbance, hiding behind their stalls, or readying their weapons.  
  
“Try not to scuff the Witcher up too much.” The purple-masked man, who had made the order, yawned from where he was stationed safely behind his cronies. He paused, tilting his head thoughtfully to the side, examining Jaskier before speaking again. “Scratch that. Scuff him up good if he resists, put him in his place. Nothing permanent, though. Avoid the vitals.”  
  
Jaskier squeaked from where he was very unsuccessfully trying to hide behind Geralt - a difficult feat to accomplish now that he possessed far more girth than he was accustomed to. Trying to rein that girth in and shrink back behind his own narrow shoulders resulted in an absolutely ridiculous sight, similar to that of a grizzly bear crouching behind a somewhat feral mongoose.  
  
A comical sight, as well, apparently - their new, mysterious foes shared a cruel laugh as they approached. Geralt took a step back but froze when Jaskier yelped, his boot scraping against the edge of the docks. They were out of space, though their boat was to the left, bobbing in the kicked-up waves.  
  
One man drew a pair of cuffs, jangling them and playfully whistling in Jaskier’s general direction, just as one might summon a cat.  
  
“Pss, pss. Come ‘ere, scaredy-Witcher. We won’t hurt you... _much_.” He leered at the bard, who yelped and tried to make Geralt’s massive frame even smaller. “Look at him, damn near pissing his breeches. Almost feel sorry for the wee lad, gettin’ thrown into a mutant’s body like that. All sorts of terrifying, I’d imagine.”  
  
“Not a bad body at all, though. Quite the stallion.” A woman’s voice, light and airy. She was wielding a rapier, and though her mask obscured her mouth and nose, Jaskier could tell she was grinning by the crinkle of her eyes. “Might have to give him a proper examination once he’s trussed and ready to go.”  
  
“N-n-no, thanks, the - er - the stallion’s good on that.” Jaskier was suddenly painfully aware that he was shirtless, though the cold didn’t bite nearly as much as he thought it might. He glanced down, swallowing thickly at the scars decorating his chest. It was an alienating view, and not having a single moment to stop and chat about what had just happened to their bodies, to the weather, to the other villagers didn’t help much. “Can’t we just talk about this for a minute? Aside from all that killing nonsense, did you cast some sort of _spell_? Are - are we dealing with a permanent situation here, or...”  
  
“Only permanent thing is gonna be your little friend lyin’ dead on the ground.” The man with the cuffs paused. “Well, I guess that means you won’t be going back into your own body, so...yeah, permanent.”  
  
That elicited another bout of raucous cackling, though their wicked banter _also_ told both men that the order to “kill the bard” had been in reference to Geralt in Jaskier’s body.  
  
So, they wanted the body of a Witcher without any of the combat prowess that usually came with the trade. Definitely not a sign of good intentions. They felt comfortable enough to toy with them, too, which meant the group was not _incredibly_ nice and also fairly confident in their abilities.  
  
Unfortunately, none of those were revelations that improved their current situation in any way, shape, or form.  
Jaskier watched Geralt raise his hand, try to blast them away - nothing happened and he cursed, glancing around the small space allotted to them for any possible exit strategy.  
  
“Fuck. Jaskier, aard.”  
  
“Sorry - _what_?”  
  
“ _Aard_.”  
  
Jaskier released the vice-grip he’d had on Geralt’s - his own - _blast_ , heretofore referred to as _Geralt’s_ \- shoulders and gave him a withering look. For whatever reason, he was also suffering from a headache that made him unbearably crotchety. Judging by the occasional wince from Geralt, he was feeling it, too.  
  
“Oh, you mean the very complex, Witcher-specific magic you spent years mastering? You just want me to - to what?” He raised a too-large hand, carelessly flapping it about. “Just _cast_ your stupid bloody sign with no prior training, just like tha - ”  
  
He had been wiggling his fingers about mostly at random - a mockery of some of the motions he’d seen Geralt use in the past - but as he spoke, a large funnel of flames suddenly burst from his palm, leaving a scorching path on the docks to their left.  
  
Jaskier shrieked and flailed around, trying to put it out, but Geralt didn’t miss a beat - he swiftly grabbed the other’s wrist, both to steady him and redirect the spray towards their enemies.  
  
“H-holy _fuck_ , Geralt - ow, it _burns_! It really, really...oh, not that bad, actually. Kind of tickles. How does that work, exactly? Are you - are your palms fireproof, Geralt, or - _ack_!”  
  
The semicircle of assassins, or whatever they were, recoiled and had to back away a few steps. While the funnel slowed and sputtered before extinguishing completely, Geralt cut Jaskier’s nervous rambling off by roughly yanking him towards their docked boat. His swords rested innocently against its railing.  
  
“On my signal, jump to the boat and use aard on the docks to propel it away.”  
  
“Wh - that’s a _lot_ of pressure, I think it was just beginner’s luck, really, there’s no telling - ”  
  
An arrow whistled past Geralt’s head - he ducked just in time. Their other attackers were hindered by the fire devouring the docks, but that distraction wouldn’t last long.  
  
“ _Now_!”  
  
With another undignified shriek, Jaskier leapt with Geralt. They both landed heavily on the deck, but when he raised his hand and tried using another sign, nothing happened.  
  
Geralt had grabbed his swords, but seemed uncharacteristically out of breath as he went about lowering the sails. “Jaskier, use the fucking sign already - ”  
  
Jaskier’s headache intensified, and the hand that wasn’t desperately trying to produce any form of magic clawed at his temples. He suffered from a sudden flare of anger. “Will you fuck off with the shouting? Do you not see me _trying_ , Geralt?”  
  
“Try harder!” Geralt yanked on a stubborn knot, one hand clutching his head as well. “ _Fuck_!”  
  
In spite of both of their increasingly aggressive yelling, no triumphant telekinetic blast came - not even in the nick of time like Jaskier had been half-heartedly expecting. With the fire now smothered by the ample amount of snow cascading from the sky, their foes used a charred wood beam pried free from the dock to start boarding their boat.  
  
“Bollocks, Geralt, this doesn’t look good - th-the cabin, we can barricade - ”  
  
Suddenly, as he backed away from the approaching enemies, searing pain shot through Jaskier’s leg. He let out a strangled cry, staggering and barely managing to catch himself on the wall.  
  
Looked down in horror to see an arrow protruding from his muscular calf - correction, an arrow that had gone straight _through_ his muscular calf. The head gleamed darkly with blood. It felt like it had gone through bone, like something was _broken_ -  
  
“ _Got ‘im_!”  
  
“ _Kill the other while he’s down_!”  
  
Geralt’s eyes widened in panic - and there it was, Jaskier finally saw a familiar expression on his own face, crystal clear even through the tears that blurred his vision, strangely comforting - but when he made to run to the other’s aid, another arrow sailed by, lodging itself in the cabin door just inches from his head. Several more followed, the archers lined up on the pier and aiming straight for him.  
  
A fresh wave of pain had Jaskier looking away as Geralt, face flushed and almost comically pink, brandished his steel sword and deftly knocked away the barrage of projectiles while facing those who had managed to board the boat before the wood beam snapped.  
  
Two shaking, scarred hands hovered over the injury, his breathing uneven and echoing terribly in his ears. Geralt’s voice, interspersed with loud grunts, just barely broke through the din.  
  
“ - _skier_ , break off the end and take it out, you’ll be fine - you’ll _heal_ \- ”  
  
With a low whimper, Jaskier nodded but when his fingers made contact with the shaft - the most delicate, probing touch - white-hot agony sparked through his leg and he had to bite down on the fist of his other hand to keep any ragged, keening sounds at bay.  
  
“ - can do it. Deep, slow breaths, Jask - ”  
  
Geralt had spent his whole life honing his skills with the sword, but that had been with a body in peak physical condition. He was unused to the toll the weapon’s weight now had on his arm, of the lack of stamina his new physique provided. Still, he met each deadly swing as best he could, managing to block them all by wielding his sword two-handed.  
  
Quickly running out of steam, though, and expending too much energy to keep his breathing slow and steady.  
  
Parrying and using his blade to knock another enemy into the raging waters below, Geralt winced sympathetically at the aborted scream behind him. It followed the sound of the arrow shaft snapping, the squelch and splatter of blood as its halves were extracted and discarded.  
  
Then there was a thump, and he thought maybe Jaskier had passed out, but without his refined hearing, he couldn’t gauge the other’s breaths -  
  
The distraction cost Geralt dearly and a blade caught him in the side. The feel of the blow was more visceral and intense than he was used to and he staggered, inadvertently allowing his opponent to disarm him. His steel sword flew from his grasp, landing a few paces away. Fuck. He wasn’t used to fighting like this. In battle, he could focus on several things at once and still be _present_. And why was he gasping? Why was the oxygen around him suddenly so elusive?  
  
The man was the last one left standing on the boat. He paced around Geralt, letting out a low whistle as he surveyed his fallen comrades. Mostly unconscious, wouldn’t be out for long, though one was bleeding pretty badly from a wound in his leg.  
  
Back in the marketplace, the tougher sailors and other battle-hardened members of the town had started fighting back, distracting the archers and the purple-masked stranger.  
  
The group didn’t seem interested in killing unnecessarily, instead working to incapacitate the villagers by non-fatal means - it bought Geralt and Jaskier time, though not a great amount.  
  
“That was an impressive display, considering what you had to work with.” The man, now circling him, gestured to Geralt’s new body with his blade. It was a body he knew well - had spent plenty of afternoons exploring every delectable inch - but that knowledge didn’t ease the cramped, tight, _constricted_ feeling it burdened him with now. “Shame to kill such a great warrior, but I’m afraid it’s not your tactical mind we’re after.”  
  
“And what is it you’re after? My body - for what purpose?” Geralt twisted his face up in a sneer, hoped it managed to make his lover’s open, honest features at least somewhat intimidating. Unlikely. Stupid, lovely doe eyes. “Someone hired you for this, clearly. If you and your friends fuck off now, I won’t kill you.”  
  
“I don’t think you’re in a position to be making threats, _friend_. Lookin’ a little pale. Little green about the gills. Guess I’d better end your suffering now, eh? I’ll cut that pretty head off, nice and clean.”  
  
As the man readied his blade and charged at Geralt, however, a large fist came out of seemingly nowhere and clobbered him in the face with shockingly brutal force.  
  
“Aha!” Jaskier exclaimed as the man fell, out cold. Seemed the bard had managed to rouse himself and spring to action at the very last second, though he was incredibly pale and the heroic effect was ruined when he hissed and shook out his hand, gruff voice whiny as all hell. Whinier than Geralt imagined it could ever be, at least. “ _Ouchie_. Did _not_ expect that to hurt as much as it did. Ooh, that really smarts. Ow, ow, _ow_.”  
  
Despite himself, Geralt smirked. “Jaskier. Thought you passed out.”  
  
“Oh, yeah. Out like a light, but then this annoying smell woke me up, kind of metallic but also very sweet and familiar, had all sorts of adrenaline and... _instincts_ kicking in for whatever reason, and...” The bard sniffed the air, trailed off when his eyes settled upon Geralt’s side, the large patch of blood staining his white blouse. He gasped and pointed an accusing finger. “That’s the smell! What the _hell_ , Geralt? I leave you alone with my body for five _bloody_ minutes - ”  
  
“Says the one who took an arrow to the leg.”  
  
“Well, _maybe_ , but it’s actually quite numb right now, and...gods, how bad is it?” Jaskier abandoned the initial shock that came from seeing his own blood, running to Geralt’s side and slinging his arm over his shoulder. “We have supplies in the cabin, wait here and I’ll grab them, and - and... _fuck_ , that’s a lot blood...”  
  
In his peripheral, Geralt saw that some of the enemies he had felled were stirring. Saw that the villagers were quickly losing to their more skilled opponents. Jaskier propped him against the wall of the cabin before flinging the door open and rifling around inside. He babbled the whole time, working himself up into some kind of frenzy.  
  
“ - your hands are so bloody big, Geralt, how you do _anything_ with these...these _meat cleavers_ is beyond me - ”  
  
Too tired to tell the bard to shut the fuck up and let him know they were working with a very imminent deadline. He kept his voice calm, tried not to think about the way it slurred.  
  
“Focus, Jaskier.”  
  
“Easy for you to say. Everything’s so _loud_ and there are so many weird _smells_ , I bet being in _my_ body is a picnic compared to - ”  
  
Though the bard couldn’t see him, Geralt pointedly glanced down at the blood oozing from his side. The heaviness in his limbs had him swaying where he stood. He didn’t expect to feel Jaskier’s mortality like this, to lose so much control because of such a small wound. Rather than inspire some heartfelt epiphany, this weakness irritated him.  
  
“Not a picnic. We need to work on your fucking pain tolerance.”  
  
Something clattered to the floor. After a few painstaking minutes, Jaskier appeared in the doorway. His lute was strapped to his back, along with their pack of emergency supplies. Before he went to Geralt, he grabbed both swords and clumsily secured them. To his chest. _Backwards_.  
  
Geralt went to correct him, to let him know that he looked ridiculous, like a pack mule, but the world tilted dangerously when he stepped forward. Sound was muddled and he scowled as Jaskier hurried forward, hands hovering awkwardly for a moment before coming to a decision and, with a garbled apology, hoisted Geralt up. Not a bridal carry. Like a sack of fucking potatoes.  
  
Jaskier seemed to notice their deadly foes were regaining consciousness and instinctively reaching for their weapons. He found the time to berate Geralt all the same.  
  
“I would really prefer if you didn’t use my face to frown so _deeply_. You’ll give me wrinkles within the hour, at this rate. Honestly. Just a little common decency. I don’t think it’s too much to ask, seeing how I’m currently saving both of our lives.”  
  
“My thanks to the fucking hero of the hour.” Geralt winced as his wound was jostled, Jaskier apparently oblivious to the fact that the chosen method of transport was akin to torture. No, he didn’t think about how he had utilized this very hold to drag the bard out of many, many sticky situations. Often while injured. “Run. _Now_.”  
  
With that, they were off. Jaskier narrowly avoided a swinging blade, leaping to the docks and sprinting as fast as Geralt’s powerful legs would allow. Which was actually pretty damn fast, even with all the additional weight, even with the way he limped as the adrenaline wore off and his injured leg throbbed terribly.  
  
As he ran, he slipped on a pile of snow at seemingly just the right time - that exact pile exploded in a cloud of white and brown mere milliseconds later. He yelped and spared a glance over his shoulder, saw the purple-masked man raising his hands and readying another blow as he shouted orders to his remaining associates. Shit. A magic-user.  
  
There was a tropical forest, the path through which was linked to the village by several rickety bridges. The bard briefly considered beelining to the stables, getting Roach, but he doubted he had the time and they had at least a few days paid off at the tavern. If he could just get to cover, to the trees, get away long enough to treat both of their wounds, they’d make it. They _had_ to make it.  
  
Another blast had a stall blowing up to his left. He was running in erratic zig-zags, trying to throw off his attacker, and it worked only because of how much the slick, newly-formed ice had him slipping and sliding. He cursed and screeched the whole way, ignoring Geralt’s annoyed, slightly drunken directions in his ear.  
  
Soon enough, their exit was in sight. It was right there. His arms were rapidly losing strength, a funny tingling feeling in his wounded leg occasionally forcing it to give out beneath him, but he pressed on, sprinting across the first bridge and practically diving off the dirt path, into the underbrush of the forest.


	62. Chapter 62

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I wanted this curse to be large-scale and kind of out of control (because, as a certified menace, I can never just keep things SIMPLE) so apologies ahead of time for this arc eventually turning into a colossal shitstorm of confusing body swaps!

“We lost them, sir.” A masked archer, who had slipped an arrow from her quill and was now displaying it to her leader. Hardly noticeable, but the tip of its head had been coated in a thick, violet substance. “But I reckon they’ll be back shortly.”  
  
“If it was the idiot on his own out there, I would have to agree. But with his partner still alive...I doubt it. Witchers are smart and resourceful. Not to be underestimated.” He glared across the bridge at the thick, dense jungle. “At the very least it will slow them. I want every inch of that fucking place turned upside-down.”  
  
“Yes, sir. I’ll put together a search party.”  
  
“Hunt them like prey. The second you get a clear shot on the bard, you take it. We need Geralt of Rivia out of the picture, but be sure not to harm his body further.”  
  
As the archer nodded and hustled off, the man sighed wearily, removing his cloak and tugging down the intricate, purple-and-gold mask to take a deep breath of fresh air. He was remarkably tall, but of an indistinguishable age, not particularly youthful but not quite old, either. Long, silky black hair cascaded freely down his shoulders, the top half pulled back in a neat ponytail.  
  
On his chest, above a simple, but finely-made black tunic, rested an iron-wrought medallion engraved with the face of a cat. It shuddered occasionally, but he paid it no mind.  
  
After filling his lungs with the icy air, seemingly in deep thought, he slung his cloak over his shoulder, slipped the mask back up, and turned to the group awaiting his instructions.  
  
“They’ll be heading north. Send a second wave to cut them off at the mountain pass, should the first fail. Find them as soon as possible. The longer this magic remains active, the more volatile it becomes.” He grimaced, feline eyes darting to the villagers who had been rounded up at the center of the snow-blanketed marketplace. “Fucking mess, hitting all these people. The weather. I’ll set up in the tavern, figure out what went wrong. Those staying behind work on containing the infected, but keep your contact to a minimum. Gloves, masks, no talking. If they get out, this will spread and the world as we know it will be thrust into chaos. Are the stakes clear?”  
  
The men and women surrounding him nodded and the small, previously quiet town erupted into a flurry of activity. 

♜ ♖

The forest was tropical, more of a jungle with a surplus of thick vines and a dense population of trees with wide fronds that made it difficult to navigate off the established path. Though it hosted a vast variety of unique plant-life, animals, and reptiles, it was incredibly peaceful and still. The snow and sun barely broke through its canopy, enveloping it in cool shadows and creating a pleasantly quiet, relaxing ambience.  
  
That silence was abruptly interrupted when a still-shirtless, still-Geralt Jaskier crashed haphazardly through the underbrush with a still-bleeding, still-Jaskier Geralt slung over his shoulder.  
  
His leg throbbed in protest - not getting better, but somehow _worse_ \- and once he was sure they were out of danger, at least for the moment, he stopped and set Geralt down on the ground.  
  
He braced himself against an algae-covered tree, panting heavily and glancing down at his leg. The bleeding had stopped, he could see that through the rip in black trousers, but the _discomfort_ was radiating up and out, alternating between excruciating and manageable -  
  
“Sutures and alcohol, Jaskier.”  
  
Bombarded by his own irritatingly intense waves of pain, and lacking his usual keen senses, Geralt didn’t pick up on the subtle signs of distress coming from the other man. He slipped off his blouse, probing the wound in his side before taking a seat. They had settled in a small clearing, only about four feet wide. It would do for the night, assuming their mysterious, persistent attackers weren’t also skilled trackers.  
  
“Bandages, too.”  
  
“R-right, yeah. Got it.”  
  
Jaskier sucked in a deep breath before removing his lute, the swords, and their pack from his person, setting them down on the ground. He chalked the lingering discomfort in his calf up to the Witcher’s innate healing abilities. Not sure how it worked, but anything involving skin knitting itself back together at an unnatural rate was bound to be at least a little unpleasant.  
  
He fished through the large satchel, pulling out fresh shirts for himself and Geralt, sutures, a bottle of dwarven spirits, and a roll of clean bandages.  
  
When Geralt flooded the wound with the alcohol, took a deep swig, and immediately went for the suture kit, however, Jaskier let out a horrified gasp.  
  
“Are - you’re going to do it _yourself_?”  
  
“Have to stop the bleeding.”  
  
“But - no, no. Nono _no_.” Jaskier knelt beside the other man and snatched the needle and thread from his hands before he could protest. “Let me do it, you look like you’re about to pass out. Last thing my body needs is a head wound on top of all the havoc you’ve wreaked.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “Fine. How’s my leg?”  
  
“ _Peachy_.”  
  
“You sure?” Suspicious blue eyes squinted at Jaskier while he secured the thread and got to work. Though Geralt maintained an impressively passive expression, a soft grunt escaped his lips when the needle slipped into tender skin. “You look pale.”  
  
“Just a flesh wound, Geralt. Nothing a mighty Witcher like myself can’t handle.”  
  
That earned him an eye roll, but Jaskier noticed the way Geralt’s lids fluttered, the way his jaw tightened fractionally with each ministration.  
  
He decided to talk the man through it, suffering a powerful twinge of sympathy when he thought of how it might feel to suddenly experience pain as a human - one with very little tolerance for it, at that - would.  
  
“So, are we going to talk about those baddies? Who were they?”  
  
“‘Baddies?’”  
  
Jaskier felt a hand crawl up to the thigh of his uninjured leg and squeeze tightly. He paused long enough to rest his own large palm upon it for just a moment.  
  
“You know, baddies. Bad guys. I’m assuming that’s what they were, seeing how they just spelled us and our quaint coastal village into oblivion.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” Geralt glared at a large frond over Jaskier’s shoulder as the stitches were tied off, the wound quickly wrapped in fresh bandages. “Fuckers. I don’t know who they are. Just know they’re after my body, for whatever reason.”  
  
“Can you blame them, though?” With a cheeky grin, he flexed the muscles of Geralt’s chest. “This thing’s deluxe. Aside from your nose. Some odors in this world are better left unsmelled, if you ask me.”  
  
“I didn’t.” Suddenly feeling a bit awkward, Geralt slipped on the shirt Jaskier offered, looking off to the side. It was almost uncanny that, though he sported the bard’s face and body, he still managed to look and act very much like himself. “Um, thanks. For doing that.”  
  
“What are best friends-turned-lovers-slash-soulmates for, if not to seal all your holes.” At that, Geralt raised a perfectly-coiffed brunette brow. “Not - bollocks, not like that. We’d be venturing into...slightly narcissistic territory there, wouldn’t we? I mean, unless you’re into - wait, are you _blushing_ , Geralt?”  
  
“What? No.” The Witcher raised a hand to his cheek, felt a nice bit of heat to it. While his own body was physically incapable of the reaction, Jaskier’s blushed as fiercely and frequently as a flowered maiden. “Fucking hell.”  
  
“You deviant! I know it’s been a minute since we...with all the bickering, but...” Jaskier was getting far too much enjoyment out of their shitty situation. He laughed softly, shifting until his aching leg was splayed out in front of him. “And to think, all those times I told you to go fuck yourself - now you actually _can_! Brilliant. Just brilliant.”  
  
“Glad you’re being mature about this, Jaskier.”  
  
“Oh, stop your scowling. My face is far too adorable for it to have any real effect.”  
  
While the bard snickered and teased, Geralt groaned and stood, surveying the clearing to get a better idea of what they were working with.  
  
Good cover, plenty of easily-accessible materials to make shelter. Though there wasn’t much snow on the ground here, the air was unnaturally cold and their casual, linen clothes weren’t nearly enough to combat the sudden change in temperature. They would need a large fire to make up for it.  
  
He knew of tiny villages that were scattered throughout the terrain, nestled deep in the jungle. They weren’t on any maps and mostly kept to themselves, but if Geralt and Jaskier were lucky they would stumble upon one, allowing them access to proper supplies.  
  
When Jaskier, having come down from his little fit of amusement, moved to stand, Geralt placed a hand on his shoulder and plopped him right back down.  
  
“I’ll make camp.” A frown when he noticed a light sheen of sweat on the other’s forehead. They had been through a lot that day. He looked exhausted. “Just rest.”  
  
It seemed like the bard wanted to argue that, but after a moment, he relented and settled back against the tree trunk.

♜ ♖

In no time, Geralt had used the fronds of the trees to weave a small shelter. Food sources were slim and the stitches in his side tugged uncomfortably with each movement, so he decided to rehydrate some of the dried meat in their pack for a quick, simple stew.  
  
All that depended on whether or not he could actually start a fire. He had been at it for nearly fifteen minutes and was quickly realizing just how much he relied on the convenience of his signs. Embarrassing.  
  
“Can’t go back to the village. They’ll be waiting for us.” He was on his knees before a bundle of tinder, fervently rubbing the makeshift twig-drill between his palms against a flat piece of wood. Jaskier’s hands were unbearably clammy and it kept slipping from his grasp. “We’ll go to Yen’s. A pain in the arse on foot, but either she or Annika will know what to do. Might be able to reverse this.”  
  
“Yeah, all right. Um, Ger - ?”  
  
“Masked bastards think they can just steal my body? With some idiotic spell?” The Witcher glared at the small spark he had created, anger intensifying when it sputtered out. “First Annika’s curse, the mavka, then - _light_ , damn it - then your magical amnesia - and now _this_? I’ve had enough of magic to last a fucking lifetime.”  
  
“Oh, boy.” Jaskier cleared his throat, tried speaking louder and clearer despite the strange heaviness that weighed down his tongue. “Okay. Look, I know I was talking about expressing your emotions literally _moments_ before those arseholes pulled the old switcheroo on us, Geralt, but I really think I - ”  
  
“Now I can’t smell for shit. Can’t hear shit, either. Feels like there’s cotton in my _ears_. My arms are sore from wielding a sword for all of five fucking minutes and I’m - why does everything _itch_ , Jaskier?” He abandoned the drill to aggressively scratch at his forearm, the back of his neck, his ankle, glaring at the small red bumps and the long, red scratch-marks his nails left behind. “Are these - how do you have this many mosquito bites? How does _one_ person have - ”  
  
Fed up with not being heard - or listened to - the bard picked up a small twig and tossed it at the other man’s head before sagging back against the tree.  
  
“First of all, stop - stop _scratching_ them, you brute. Only makes it worse. _Second_ , I’m kind of dealing with something over here so I’m going to need you to hold off on the conniption and tell me if I’m dying or if it’s just some weird Witcher thing. All right? _Gods above_.”  
  
Geralt had finally looked up, instantly frowning and forgetting his tirade when he caught sight of Jaskier. Pale. Dark circles. The usual gold color of the Witcher’s eyes was somewhat faded, and it looked like they were having trouble focusing.  
  
“Oh. Fuck. What is it? My - your leg? Should’ve healed by now.” He narrowed his eyes. “You said it was fine.”  
  
“I might have...spoken a little too soon. Well, it’s not just the leg, I’m really, _really_ sweaty but it’s _cold_ and very uncomfortable and I - does your body often cramp up like this?” He winced, an arm curling around his midriff, fingers digging into the spot just below his liver. His voice was hoarse - he wasn’t even trying to raise it a few octaves as he had been since the switch. “If it does, that certainly explains your cantankerous-ness.”  
  
“Where, exactly? Stomach?”  
  
Geralt abandoned the smoldering pile and dropped to his knees beside the bard, feeling his forehead. Scorching hot, even in this frigid cold, but he was shivering. It couldn’t possibly be a fever from infection, though. Not this soon, and not likely with a Witcher’s enhanced immune system. That left one other very inconvenient explanation.  
  
“What kind of cramp - sharp or dull?”  
  
“Sharp,” Jaskier spoke and squirmed through another spasm, gritting his teeth, “hoo, _very_ sharp.”  
  
“Bastards.” Geralt hissed, producing one of his small daggers from a sheath on Jaskier’s hip and slicing through the material of his pants. He leaned in close to the wound, sniffing tentatively. “Fuck.”  
  
The bard made a breathless, sort of hysterical sound. “That we do.”  
  
“We - what?”  
  
“‘ _Bastards fuck_.’ Your words, not mine.”  
  
A groan. “You’ve been poisoned. I can’t smell what they used thanks to this useless fucking thing.”  
  
“Hey - lay off my nose, will you? I told you I have _allergies_. Usually just in the spring and summer, but...you know. The tropics. Summer year-round.”  
  
“Nuisance.” Geralt nearly went cross-eyed as he glared down at the offending feature. “What’s the point of having one if it can’t smell for half the year?”  
  
“Dunno. Decoration?” Jaskier let out another little laugh that evolved into a yelp as pain lanced sharply through his abdomen. “ _Shit_. That one was worse. All right, how - how do we fix this?”  
  
Their attackers hadn’t wanted to destroy Geralt’s body, clearly...if they used poison, it was for insurance. To make certain the bard would come crawling back for the antidote if he happened to escape.  
  
Returning to the village wasn’t an option, though. They would be playing right in their hands. He would have to get creative. Thankfully, there was no lack of plant life around them, all of it lush, thriving, and quite similar to the northern species he was used to.  
  
Additionally, if it took this long to show symptoms, the poison had to be relatively slow-acting. They wouldn’t want him dying, just fearing for his life enough to -  
  
Another cry tore free from Jaskier’s lips and he clawed at that same spot, around his liver.  
  
“Damn them.” Geralt didn’t know when he had taken the bard’s hand into his own, but he gave it a gentle squeeze all the same. “Breathe through it. In and out, four counts each. Kickstart my metabolism, slow the poison. And, uh...I’m going to need you to sniff the wound.”  
  
Jaskier cringed, body relaxing as the spasm subsided. “ _Sniff_ the - ? Ew, Geralt. I don’t want to.”  
  
“You have to, I need - ”  
  
“But _why_? I can see your skin moving as it heals and - no offense - but it’s really, _really_ grossing me out.”  
  
“It’s not gross, Jaskier, it’s - will you shut up and listen? If you describe the smell, I might be able to figure out what poison they used. Craft an antidote.”  
  
With a dubious look, Jaskier allowed Geralt to prop his leg up. After a moment he leaned in and gingerly sniffed the healing injury on his calf, frowning when he was assaulted by a myriad of powerful scents.  
  
The perfumed oil he used on his hair, almost nauseatingly strong, especially with Geralt hovering so close. The salty tang of sweat, metallic tang of blood. The crisp freshness of the plants and air around them. Something rancid in the background that he couldn’t quite place.  
  
“I can’t narrow it down, there are too many - oh, gods. I’m going to die in your body, and you’re going to be stuck in mine _forever_ and - and fuck, what of my throngs of fans, Geralt? They’ll be heartbroken, y-you can’t even play a _lute_ \- ”  
  
“Throngs. Right.” Geralt gently, but firmly, tightened his grip on the other’s hand to bring him back. “None of that is going to happen. Focus, Jaskier. Close your eyes and trust me. Four in, four out. My body will do the rest.”  
  
The bard did as he was told. With his eyes screwed shut, he found that though he was still very panicked, Geralt’s nervous system seemed to be trying to calm him down.  
  
Pulse slowing considerably, previously shallow breaths evening out on their own. Another sniff had that strange background scent coming to the front, enabling him to detect certain notes.  
  
“It’s floral...really floral. Almost sickeningly sweet, like - ow, owow, it’s coming back, _fuck_ me sideways - ”  
  
Jaskier had lurched forward again, curling in on himself, but floral and sweet were the only adjectives Geralt needed to know.  
  
When he made to leave, however, the bard’s arm lashed out and caught his wrist.  
  
“I’m coming with you.”  
  
“No, Jask - ”  
  
Fierce, gold eyes squinted up at him through the pain. “Yes. You’re injured and - _ah_ \- we’re dealing with a band of body-snatching _maniacs_ who want to kill you, specifically. I _won’t_ let you go alone.”  
  
With a heavy sigh, Geralt hoisted the other man up, grabbing one of the longer branches from the pile of firewood and thrusting it into his chest.  
  
“Use this as a crutch. Stubborn arse.”  
  
Chapped lips curved into a broad, uncharacteristically unhindered smile that, strangely enough, had Geralt’s heart fluttering in his chest.  
  
“Takes one to know one.”  
  
They picked through the jungle, Geralt silently going over the recipe for the antidote in his head. Celandine, muddled and combined with the remaining spirits. A drop of the golden oriole he always kept in their pack. Should result in a tincture that would effectively neutralize any of the deadlier, flower-based poisons he was familiar with. Buy his body time to filter out the rest.  
  
They searched and foraged for what felt like an eternity, with Jaskier hobbling along after Geralt, ooh’ing and aww’ing at the beautiful sights the jungle provided. While the tactical breathing helped mitigate most of the damage from his cramps, he seemed to be deteriorating mentally and the Witcher had to yank him back on course several times.  
  
Finally, Geralt found the flower. Small and yellow. Glossy petals. Heart-shaped leaves. He breathed a sigh of relief, tucking it into his pocket and quickly guiding an increasingly delirious Jaskier back to their little camp.  
  
As soon as they burst into the clearing, Geralt urged the bard to sit up against a tree, grabbed their pack, and started brewing the antidote. His hands were shaking violently and he cursed, nearly dropping the flower several times as he used the hilt of his dagger to crush it in his palm.  
  
Jaskier watched him struggle for a few moments before suddenly reaching out, taking the dagger and cupping his other hand under Geralt’s for support. With a much steadier hand, he ground the petals up, eyes not leaving the other man’s as he did.  
  
“Thank you.” Geralt breathed, filling the thick silence that had settled between them. He lingered for a moment before tipping the petals into the small bottle of spirits, along with a drop of the oriole.  
  
While he shook it vigorously, mixing everything together, Jaskier let out a breathy chuckle. “That’s a lot of alcohol. Are you trying to get me drunk, Geralt?”  
  
“Maybe. Open.”  
  
The bard quickly obliged as another bolt of pain stabbed at his internal organs. Geralt gently tilted his chin back, thumb brushing against fine, silver stubble as he brought the bottle up to slightly parted lips and slowly emptied its contents.  
  
Not a pleasant taste at all but Jaskier braved through it, finishing every last drop of the draught at Geralt’s behest. When it was done, he sagged back against the tree, breathless and absolutely drained.  
  
“Should work quickly. How do you feel?”  
  
“ _Awful_.” Jaskier wriggled around a little, slowly releasing the grip he’d had on his middle. Gold eyes widened as the reoccurring, aching throb was replaced with a much more pleasant soreness. “Better, actually. A little tipsy. Gods, how many times this year have you had to spill some vile liquid down my throat?”  
  
“Hm.” A sly smile that, on his own face, looked very saucy. “Don’t remember you calling it ‘vile’ last time. Something along the lines of...what was it again?”  
  
Jaskier snorted in surprise at the other man’s sudden cheekiness. He absolutely adored a cheeky Geralt, hadn’t had the pleasure of encountering one in what felt like ages.  
  
“You mean _‘nectar of the gods?’_ I _knew_ that would go straight to your head. But that’s not where I was going with this. You’re always there to save me, even when we’re...” He trailed off and glanced down, finding it a bit weird to be looking into his own eyes while speaking so honestly and openly. “I just appreciate it, that’s all. So...thank you, Geralt.”  
  
Geralt followed his gaze to where their hands were now resting centimeters apart on the forest floor. For whatever reason, those words made him feel like shit. Like he didn’t deserve them.  
  
He felt guilty, too, about the things he had said before they switched bodies - the mean, cutting comments. Leaving for days on end. Calling him a child. He couldn’t get Jaskier’s soft voice murmuring “that’s not fair” out of his head, almost an exact replica of the tone the bard had used during their fight on the mountain.  
  
“Jaskier, I - ”  
  
He had been slowly closing the space between their hands, readying himself to apologize, but as soon as their fingers made contact, chaos erupted.  
  
His voice died in his throat as, similar to the way it had done before, an electrical, live-wire feeling exploded in the spot where their skin touched. Jaskier yelped and tried to retract but, _unlike_ before, they weren’t forcibly separated by some magical blast. Instead, their hands latched together, and the feeling spread like a virus through their bodies.  
  
Geralt grunted and the whole world shifted before being bathed in a bright, white light. Too bright, his eyes instinctively slamming shut.  
  
There was searing pain in his chest, as if his very essence was being savagely torn apart - as soon as it became unbearable, there was a sickening jolt and he felt himself being ripped from his body. Like he was splintering, about to _shatter_ -  
  
The force of it sent them both sprawling - Jaskier’s body lurched back, landing heavily on top of the pile of tinder. Geralt’s slammed into the trunk of the tree, leaving a large dent in it and shaking the whole clearing.  
  
The Witcher was the first to regain his senses. He groaned, extracting himself from the tree with an obnoxious cracking sound, blindly grasping at the floor and cursing the sudden darkness until he realized his eyes were closed.  
  
Upon opening them, he was met with the sight of Jaskier. Jaskier, in his own body. Jaskier, fumbling around and trying to sit up. Broken bits of wood shifted beneath him and he let out a frustrated, high-pitched sound before his lids fluttered open.  
  
Blue eyes met gold, both of their faces sporting the same expression of shock and confusion.  
  
“Geralt, did we...” The bard’s hands clasped his own cheeks before moving to his chest, his side - wincing as they brushed the stitched wound - and he gasped. “We...switched back? We switched _back_!”  
  
“Thank the gods.” Geralt stood, one hand clutching his head while the other used the tree for support. “What the _fuck_ is happening? Did they cast the spell again? Why would they?”  
  
“I don’t know and I don’t _care_!” Jaskier hopped nimbly to his feet, practically groping himself in excitement. “Oh, it’s good to be back.” He wiggled his fingers, kissing his hands, each and every digit - ignoring the semi-disgusted, but mostly fond look Geralt shot him. “I missed you, my beautiful babies. Did mean old Geralt treat you nicely? Did he - wait, is that a - is that a _blister_ , Geralt? You - ”  
  
Geralt grumbled something unintelligible, trying to block out Jaskier’s ecstatic ravings and figure out what had just happened. It had been different than the first switch, considerably less explosive, and the air was still bitter and cold, which meant the weather was still fucked.  
  
“Jaskier,” he spoke suddenly - the bard in question, who was currently hugging himself, jolted to attention, “the totem. If this happened because they’re still casting, it might shield us from the next wave.”  
  
Blue eyes blinked at him in confusion. “Totem?”  
  
“Annika’s totem. Wasn’t in your pockets, I...” He had a sinking feeling, but had to ask all the same. “Where is it?”  
  
“Ohh. _That_ totem.” Jaskier let out a nervous laugh, dropping his arms. “Funny story. It might...still be in our room?”  
  
Geralt crossed his arms over his chest. Whatever guilt he had felt before was quickly overwhelmed by a sudden flare of anger.  
  
“Care to tell me why it’s there and not on you? Like Annika specifically requested?”  
  
“Well, we were just going out to fix the boat, and...it clashed with my outfit, you see, so I thought I would just...um - okay, okay, I _know_ it sounds bad, but - ”  
  
“No. Let me get this straight. You’re telling me you left the _one_ thing that could have prevented this in our room because it ‘ _clashed_?’”  
  
“Yes, but - ”  
  
“Unbelievable.”  
  
“Oh, Geralt, we’ve only just got our bodies back - can’t we savor the moment and circle back to this - ”  
  
“No.” Geralt had cut him off again, voice low and dangerous. “ _Damn_ it, Jaskier. How negligent can you be? I can’t even wrap my head around this - this is the last straw. Fucking done.”  
  
With that, he spun around and started stomping away. He had a massive headache coming on. Needed to put distance between them before he said something he would regret.  
  
He growled when he heard twigs crunch underfoot behind him as the bard hurried to catch up.  
  
“‘Last straw?’ Granted, it was a stupid mistake, but I really don’t appreciate you making all this out to be _my_ fault. It’s not - will you get _back_ here - ?”  
  
The Witcher ignored him and with a frustrated huff, Jaskier reached out, meaning to grab onto his arm - anything to get him to turn back around.  
  
Unfortunately, as his fingers brushed Geralt’s elbow, there was another powerful _zap_ that had them both staggering, clutching their heads. The clearing filled with blinding light once more and that same unknown, jarring force shortly had them flying apart.  
  
_Again_.  
  
Their bodies remained motionless for several minutes, the small space still ringing with the high volume argument that had just taken place.  
  
Eventually, Jaskier came to. With a groan, he rolled onto his back, opened his eyes, and poked his head up to survey the clearing. Everything was blurry, and his whole body _hurt_. Splitting headache. And where the hell was Geralt? Had it happened _again_?  
  
Did that mean...  
  
Slowly, painstakingly, he allowed his gaze to travel down to his own body. It felt as though he was underwater, vision swimming, but there was no mistaking those ripped black pants, the powerful muscles shifting beneath. Glanced over at his arm, saw the scars and the brutishly large hands.  
  
With a wretched sob and a very soft “no” he flung his head back against the soft, grassy floor.  
  
There was a rustle in the bushes and Geralt, back in Jaskier’s body, stumbled out. He was panting, eyes wide as saucers, and struggled to find his voice for a moment.  
  
“Jas - _Jaskier_.”  
  
A pitiful mewl, not nearly as adorable as it would have been with his own voice. “I don’t want to talk about it. Just - _ow_ \- just let the elements take me, Geralt.”  
  
“Jaskier, they’re not... _fuck_.” Geralt shook his head in an effort to clear the fog, staggering forward until he landed on his knees before the other man. Neither could catch their breath or gather themselves sufficiently to move very far or speak very loudly. That much magic in such a short span was clearly taking its toll. “They’re not the ones doing it. Causing the switches, I mean. It’s - ugh - it’s _us_.”


	63. Chapter 63

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y’all! I spent my free weekend loosely typing up a bunch of these chapters (and drinking lots of cheladas on my fire escape bc it was so beautiful out) so I could have more time to edit (and keep my frickin jasks and gerbears in order lmfao)! I’ll probably do this every weekend from now on and post regularly during the week, which I find works better with my schedule :)

After that last switch, they both decided to set up camp for the night before discussing the situation. Geralt’s cryptic ‘it’s us’ statement hung over them like a phantom, waiting to be explored further as they went about starting the fire and fixing their small shelter back up to snuff.  
  
Darkness had started to fall, and the later it got, the more intense the chill in the air became. It stabbed straight through the flimsy material of Geralt’s blouse and trousers - without any reliable source of heat, he was sure Jaskier’s body would succumb to hypothermia.  
  
In fact, it was already shivering violently, fingers tinged blue. Upon noticing that, he went about starting the fire with renewed vigor - they were still very cross with each other after that last dispute, but he decided it probably wouldn’t help matters much if he allowed the cold to claim any of the bard’s precious extremities. Conflict resolution, and all that.  
  
Nothing to do with the fact that being in Jaskier’s body, being _responsible_ for it - with all its vulnerabilities, the powerful needs and wants that felt so foreign compared to his own - terrified him ever-so-slightly.  
  
Not at all because every random ache and pain, even the dull heat he felt emanating from the wound in his side - not feverishly hot, he checked and double-triple-checked - had him gripping the edges of his metaphorical seat, thinking something might be wrong.  
  
Despite their respective, internalized grievances and fears, they both staggered about the small clearing like mildly stressed, but otherwise mindless zombies - the day’s events had left them battered, bruised, and exhausted. Not to mention the volatile magic constantly, unpredictably wreaking havoc on their bodies and minds.  
  
They abandoned any concept of stew for the night, settling with munching on the dried meat from their pack as they worked. Not a hearty meal by any means, but it would do.  
  
By the time Jaskier completed the shelter and collapsed, cross-legged, onto the ground beside Geralt, the fire was blazing and bathing their little camp in cheery, yellow light.  
  
“Right, then. Let’s talk about this.” Jaskier stuck his hands out, allowing the fire to warm them. “What’s with all that ‘us’ business? How on earth could _we_ be responsible for those gods-awful switches?”  
  
Geralt shrugged, poking at the burning logs with a long stick. “Don’t know exactly. It happened when we touched the first time, and again when we switched back. Two could be coincidence, but three’s a pattern.”  
  
“It’s...so, it’s only happening when we _touch_?”  
  
“More than that. Think of how much we made contact between the changes - we didn’t switch then. It seems to only happen when we’re arguing. Like it’s fueled by our aggression.” He grimaced, glaring into the fire. “Starting to think this a curse, not a spell. Spells are finite. They don’t _evolve_.”  
  
A horrified gasp. “Bloody hell, _another_ curse? I don’t know a single person on this earth who can say they’ve been cursed not once, but _twice_. That...that means more demons, then, doesn’t it?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“ _Lovely_.” The bard frowned, thinking back. “But - hang on. When we first switched back, we weren’t arguing. Quite the opposite. We worked together to make the antidote, and my blasted headache finally went away for one _blessed_ moment - ”  
  
Blue eyes tore away from the flames, flicked up to him. “You’ve been having headaches, too?”  
  
“Ye-e-es? Why? Wait, ‘ _too_?’ Oh, bollocks. Is that from the curse or are we both just irritating each other so much we’ve developed a sudden case of shared neuralgia?”  
  
“Fucked if I know. We’ll keep track of them, see what triggers the pain.” He let out a heavy, world-weary sigh. Every time he thought he had figured something out about the curse, a new problem arose. Fucking fantastic. “So, it’s not just aggression. The curse reversed when we got along.”  
  
“Don’t suppose there’s any chance this was some elaborate plan of Ciri’s to force us to stop bickering?”  
  
Geralt snorted. “Are you forgetting the angry horde hell-bent on taking my body?”  
  
“Right. Yeah. _Them_. Well - well, this isn’t a _great_ development, but at least it gives us back a little control. All we have to do is get along, right? No more arguing?” Jaskier paused and grimaced when he remembered that as of late, they had been doing nothing but. “Brilliant. Then we’ll just hold hands, switch back, and prance off into the bloody sunset. La-di-fucking-da.”  
  
Geralt raised a brow at the bard’s dry tone. “For that to work, you would probably have to lose some of the sarcasm, Jaskier.” Shook his head. “In other words, we’re fucked.”  
  
“Oh, like that’s so hard? You would have to lose that _charming_ holier-than-thou attitude you’ve come to possess, Geralt. So joke’s on you. At the very least, we are _doubly_ fucked. And _not_ in the fun way.” Jaskier snapped back, instantly regretting it when a little bolt of pain lanced through his skull. “Owie, ow, _ow_. Fuck. Okay. A truce, then.”  
  
“Truce?”  
  
“ _Yes_. Until we get this stupid curse removed, we’ll have to agree to be unconditionally nice to each other. No more pointless spats. Or temper tantrums. _Or_ the very hurtful statements you love to hurl at me _before_ said temper tantrums.” He ignored the other man’s irritated grunts and grumbles of protest. “I mean it, Geralt. Only helpful, kind, or complimentary statements from this moment forth. From both of us.”  
  
“Think you can handle that?”  
  
“ _Me_? If anyone’s going to break this truce, it’s you, with all your...” he waved his hands about in the air, gesturing vaguely at Geralt, “general sourpuss-ness. I give you five minutes tops before you pick a fight with me for something idiotic, like the way I _breathe_ \- ”  
  
“Tell me, who breathes _solely_ through their mouth, Jaskier?”  
  
“I have a stuffy _nose_ , Geralt!”  
  
“And yet I’m breathing through it just fine.”  
  
It seemed Geralt had been about to demonstrate by sucking in a deep breath but they both abruptly stopped when another small, sharp pang blossomed at the base of their skulls. As if switching bodies wasn’t punishment enough.  
  
“ _Damn_ it. All right. Starting now.” The Witcher shook it off, leaned closer and leered across the fire. Honestly, he looked a bit maniacal, with usually coiffed brown hair sitting chaotically askew. “I’ll be so nice, your fucking head will spin.”  
  
“Oh, yeah?” Jaskier crossed his arms over his chest, challenging the other man. Despite trying to feign annoyance, he found he couldn’t hold back a wicked little grin of his own. “Bring it on, then.”  
  
“I will.”  
  
“Fine. Same here.”  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Though they talked a good game, once their little bargain had been struck the two men lapsed into decidedly uncomfortable silence. Seemed saying only nice or constructive things to each other was easier in theory than in practice.  
  
For what felt like the first time in his life, Jaskier found he was at a loss for words. Having to scrutinize all of his thoughts before vocalizing them was strangely reminiscent of when he’d been truth spelled, and made him realize that nearly every sentence out of his mouth was some sort of dig.  
  
With nothing else to do - Geralt had posted himself near the perimeter of their camp, keeping watch for anything suspicious - Jaskier started periodically blowing at a stray strand of white hair and huffing angrily when it settled back on the bridge of his nose. It must have dried wrong after their impromptu ocean swim; every time he flicked it away or tucked it back behind his ear, it managed to escape and tickle his nostrils.  
  
And wasn’t that just wonderful? Even when they weren’t speaking, Geralt - or, more specifically, his long, lovely, _nuisance_ of a mane - somehow managed to get on his nerves.  
  
Upon noticing his discomfort, however, the Witcher edged closer.  
  
“Allow me.” Blue eyes gestured to Jaskier’s pants. “There’s a string in my back left pocket.”  
  
With a sullen nod, the bard pulled out the string and shifted until his back was to the other man. Geralt’s hands were pleasantly cool as they swept the hair off the nape of his neck, lingering for a moment below his ears before gathering it all into a simple, neat ponytail.  
  
Amplified hearing allowed Jaskier to pick up on the way the man behind him swallowed thickly and wet his lips before speaking again. When he did, his voice was low and husky.  
  
“String.”  
  
Jaskier passed it to him, suddenly trying not to think about their close proximity. Still infuriatingly attracted to Geralt. Even with all their fighting. Even when he wasn’t in his own body - was trapped in _Jaskier’s_ body, of all places. To top it off, judging by the subtle, delectable reactions going on behind him, the Witcher felt the same.  
  
No, no. The concept behind all _that_ was a whole, confusing bag of worms that Jaskier was too tired to peek into just yet. But _then_ Geralt decided to make a terribly soft noise in his ear as he shifted closer to swipe back that stubborn strand and suddenly, the bag was open.  
  
Once his hair was tied off, he cleared his throat and pretended he wasn’t currently faced with the existential question no philosopher (that he knew of) had gotten around to answering; would it be so wrong to jump one’s own bones whilst said bones were occupied by one’s _insufferably_ irresistible lover?  
  
“Um, th-that’s better.” Another throat clear. How did he manage to make even Geralt’s gruff, sure voice crack like that? “Thank you.”  
  
The other man grunted, moving to scoot back and settle in for the night when Jaskier suddenly reached out, catching his wrist. Both of their eyes moved to the point of contact, instinctively expecting another switch. None came.  
  
“Let go, Jaskier.”  
  
“You’re _shivering_ , Geralt.”  
  
“Oh. Still? Shit.” He glanced down at his hands, which were bright pink due to his sudden proximity to the fire. “Uh...don’t worry. I’m keeping watch of your fingers. Making sure they don’t fall off.”  
  
“Wait - you’re _what_?” The bard paused long enough to look disgusted before shaking the image from his head, releasing Geralt’s wrist and instead tugging insistently at his sleeve. “That’s not - ugh, will you just come here, you big - _little_ \- oaf? I’ll keep you warm. This body’s a bloody furnace.”  
  
“I’m fine, Jask...” Geralt trailed off, scowling when he heard the way his teeth chattered. With a reluctant sigh, he allowed the bard to draw him closer until they were flush against each other.  
  
They settled beneath the roof of their small shelter and Jaskier wrapped his arms about Geralt’s waist, shielding him from the icy breeze.  
  
“Better?”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
Jaskier smirked and made a pleased humming sound as he nuzzled his nose into Geralt’s neck - and, though he always played the little spoon, he could absolutely understand the appeal of _this_ new position. It was strangely comforting, enveloping the body in his arms so completely, reassured by its warmth and solidity.  
  
That was how they both drifted off - bathed in firelight, less than a drop of space between them. 

♜ ♖

They woke to a far less peaceful scenario. It was early, the sun not yet strong enough to breach the jungle’s thick canopy, which resulted in the clearing being bathed in gorgeous, light-blue hues.  
  
Jaskier’s eyes fluttered open and he let out a long, drawn-out yawn - directly into Geralt’s ear, which resulted in a violent, full-body shiver.  
  
“Geralt?” He frowned. “Still cold?”  
  
There was a pause, the body in his arms shifting uncomfortably. Finally, after some adjusting, he was met with his own sleepy, vaguely irate voice.  
  
“Not cold.”  
  
“Are you sure? It’s just that - ”  
  
“I’m sure.” Rather abrupt, followed by another bout of wriggling around. “ _Very_ sure.”  
  
His curt tone coupled with the awkward posturing had realization dawning on the bard and he let out a scandalized gasp before poking his head head up. He glanced down at Geralt and saw two bright spots of color on his cheeks. Allowed his gaze to wander a little further, and -  
  
“Wait, is that a - ”  
  
“Whatever you’re about to say, Jaskier, fucking save it.”  
  
“Oh-ho-ho, Ger _alt_ , you _naughty_! Do I - do you - is it we? - do we...no, definitely _you_. Do you have a - ”  
  
“ _Yes_.”  
  
Try as he might, Jaskier absolutely could not hold back his laughter - a rich, deep sound that shook both of them where they were still tangled up in each other. He ignored the way Geralt scowled back at him, finding the whole thing mildly hysterical.  
  
“Not funny, Jaskier.” A miserable groan, one booted foot half-heartedly kicking the bard. “It won’t go away. Horny bastard.”  
  
“Yeah, I’ll give you that.”  
  
He took a deep breath to steady himself and quell his wicked laughter. Geralt always, _always_ made fun of him for his unusually stubborn morning wood. To have the reverse happen was just too marvelous for him to comprehend.  
  
In his arms, Geralt had a very strange, very intense look on his face as he glared at the smoldering remains of their fire. After a moment, he groaned and buried his face in the sturdy bicep that had been cradling his head. The way his hair tickled stirred up a warm, pleasant feeling in the pit of the Jaskier’s stomach.  
  
“Just picture bloaters, or something equally awful.” A thoughtful pause. “How about Vesemir dancing a jig in a lace chemise?”  
  
The head on his arm shifted enough to allow one brilliant blue eye to squint up at him. “Ugh.” He seemed to be trying to visualize that, deflating - though _not_ where it counted - when it didn’t work. “ _Ugh_.”  
  
“Well, what do you want me to do about it? I have no control over him, he’s a free agent. Does what he pleases.” The bard propped himself up on an elbow, wiggling his eyebrows suggestively and offering a devilishly cheeky expression that lit up Geralt’s usually impassive face. “Unless you require my aid. I think this sort of problem is _exactly_ what these...” he spared a single glance at the large, cumbersome hands attached to his wrists, “ _oven mitts_ were made to take care of.”  
  
“Fuck’s sake, Jaskier. That’s a new level of depravity, even for us.”  
  
The word ‘depravity’ came out hoarse as one of those large hands skated along Geralt’s prone form before gently cupping him over his pants. And oh, the soft - and, dare he say, _adorable_ \- noise and bright pink flush the action merited _did_ things to Jaskier’s confused libido.  
  
“Oh, _really_? Are we, or are we not, the same depraved couple who invited that Skelligan woman into our bed not three moons ago?” A calloused thumb flicked at the button of Geralt’s pants - totally unfair how it caused his whole body to tense up, how he quickly caught his lower lip between his teeth to stifle any further ragged sounds. “A little body-swapping hanky-panky never hurt anyone.”  
  
“I wouldn’t be so sure.” Reluctantly, he shimmied out from under Jaskier’s wandering hand and sat up with another shiver. It seemed to break the lustful little spell they had fallen under, had the bard blinking in confusion before getting up himself. “Why is your body so fucking sensitive?”  
  
“Dunno. Why is _yours_ so interested in mine? I feel like I’ve just been hypnotized.”  
  
“Need space.” Geralt rested his back against a tree a few paces away, taking up the stance he usually assumed during meditation. As his eyes slid shut, he added, “fuck off while I meditate.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Meditate the arousal away. _That’s_ healthy.”  
  
He was met with silence. After less than a minute, Jaskier groaned, flopping onto his back. With the morning’s excitement subsiding, he was gradually becoming aware of another, far less pleasant but just as pressing urge.  
  
The other man cracked open one eye at the disgruntled little sound. “What now, Jaskier? Did you not fucking hear me?”  
  
“I have to piss.”  
  
The eye slid shut again. “So go piss.”  
  
“But it’s going to be so _weird_ , Geralt.” Jaskier whined, tilting his head back to observe the other man upside-down. “Why couldn’t you have gone when we were switched back?”  
  
“You mean during the five seconds we went without arguing?” Geralt shifted against the tree, trying to make himself more comfortable. Any attempts at meditating in the bard’s body were hindered by the bard in _his_ body currently yapping at him. “And that’s what you find weird about all this? _Pissing_? Moments ago you were trying to fuck me. Just...look the other way when you do it. I don’t know. Nor do I give a shit.”  
  
“Oi! You’re not adhering to our truce. Our agreement of...niceness. That isn’t a helpful _or_ complimentary statement.”  
  
With a heavy sigh, Geralt finally opened his both his eyes - quickly rolling them when he saw his own face glaring petulantly at him from across the camp.  
  
“Will you go? It’ll get a lot weirder if you let me piss my fucking pants.”  
  
The bard stood, put his hands on his hips, and scowled.  
  
“You see? That right there. That has got to be the _worst_ sentence I’ve ever heard. Honestly. _Blegh_.”  
  
“Noted.”  
  
“Well...” Jaskier blew out an obnoxiously loud puff of air, eyeing the thick population of trees lining their small camp - clearly stalling, taking his damn time. “I’m off. To take care of _your_ business.”  
  
“Have fun.”  
  
“You _know_ I won’t!”  
  
As he heard the bard crash through the thicket, cursing all the way, Geralt’s lips quirked into an almost imperceptible, affectionate smile.

♜ ♖

Relieving himself wasn’t _as_ terrible as he imagined, though it certainly wasn’t a joy ride. He had ventured a fair distance away from camp, thinking complete and utter silence might help him focus. It hadn’t. If anything, it made it all the worse, had him overthinking the whole thing.  
  
He buttoned Geralt’s pants back up with a displeased little frown and was about to hustle back when his attention was drawn away by the faint, distant sound of _people_. People talking. People moving.  
  
His eyes widened and he made sure he was under the cover of the trees and wild bushes before straining his ears, listening intently to try and pick up on what they were saying. A small group, moving towards him. Gradually, their voices became clearer.  
  
“ - if it were me, I would go for a king. Someone with power. Sure as hell wouldn’t choose a Witcher, though. Low on the totem pole. Ugly bastards, to boot.”  
  
“Well, lucky for you, it’s _not_ your choice. And the Witcher we’re after isn’t half bad. Got a pretty enough face, and all those scars make my knees weak.” A woman’s voice, followed by a nasty giggle. “Heard they’re animals in bed, too. Hung like horses.”  
  
Having just been forced to reacquaint himself with his Witcher’s glorious package - though he really would have preferred _any_ other method - it took everything in Jaskier not to pop out and exclaim “yes, yes, they are!” That would likely result in his capture, though, so he refrained from any and all untoward proclamations.  
  
“Pff. No man needs all that. Unnatural, is what it is.”  
  
Another female chimed in with some mean laughter of her own. “Poor Stet. Is that the problem? You’d rather remain hung like a _field mouse_?”  
  
“Didn’t hear you complaining about this field mouse last night, Narra.”  
  
The first woman who had spoken gasped before dissolving into another cackling fit. “Narra, you _didn’t_!”  
  
“Stet, you bastard, you said you wouldn’t - don’t give me that look, Ninna! We’ve been on the road for weeks, think I’d jump a bloody scarecrow if it looked at me right - ”  
  
As the two women - he had to assume they were sisters, based on their names... _Nilfgaardian_ sisters, too boot - bantered, Jaskier shrank back behind a frond. The sun was breaking through the canopy now, threatening to give away his position. And it was hard to tell how close they were, given Geralt’s impeccable hearing - it sounded like they were right beside him, though he estimated they were at least a yard off.  
  
He was getting useful information, though, and they hadn’t yet given any indication that they knew of his and Geralt’s whereabouts. Better to keep listening.  
  
Their names and accents let him know, as aforementioned, that they were from Nilfgaard. Typical. Of course that awful kingdom of creepy cultists was behind this.  
  
The man, Stet, had made it sound vaguely like somebody was planning to implant themselves in Geralt’s body. All that talk of choices, of going for a king...if that was the case, whoever had hired them was likely after the Witcher’s strength and longevity.  
  
And, as observed during their fight on the docks, these people weren’t of the average bandit ilk, either. They were organized. Skilled fighters. Mercenaries for hire, judging by their matching apparel and familiarity with each other.  
  
Hired, then, by someone with vast amounts of wealth. Perhaps someone higher up on Nilfgaard’s food chain - a noble, or maybe the king himself. He was pushing his seventies or eighties, last Jaskier heard.  
  
That was a reach, though. If a Nilfgaardian king had carelessly sanctioned the use of banned magics like that, they would have far more to worry about. Chances were he didn’t plan on skinwalking in Geralt’s body just to fight or fuck or whatever else one might expect.  
  
“Look at me, deducing and being all Witcher-y. Geralt would be _so_ proud.” Jaskier murmured to himself, before clapping a hand over his mouth when he heard a sudden lull in their teasing.  
  
“Did you hear something?”  
  
Silence fell over them and the bard heard the telltale sound of weapons being drawn. The soft crunch of leaves underfoot while they scanned the surrounding area. There was no way they could have heard him, he was more than a safe enough distance away and -  
  
“Don’t sneak up on us like that, Vrart! Nearly shot you.” The whisper-soft sound of an arrow being pulled back and returned to its quill. “Where the hell have you been?”  
  
Jaskier froze, eyes widening. He hadn’t even realized there was a fourth. The man moved through the trees so silently, not even Geralt’s keen ears picked up on his presence.  
  
While listening to their conversation, he had heard animals moving overhead in the foliage, tree frogs ribbiting softly, even the trickle of a nearby stream - but not this man.  
  
“Watching and waiting.”  
  
“Care to be more specific? Have you found them?”  
  
“I don’t understand why you have to make everything sound so _creepy_ , Vrart - ”  
  
“Will you idiots keep it down? We’re still dealing with a Witcher, no matter how inexperienced.” The newcomer, Vrart, had a low, raspy voice that that didn’t sit well with Jaskier. He elongated his s’s, almost like a snake. Very unnerving. Seemed his compatriots didn’t like him much, either. “Yes, I found them. Getting nice and cozy in their camp. Perfect time for an ambush.”  
  
“All right.” That was Stet, presumably. “Let’s move out. Remember to kill the bard first.”  
  
Jaskier whimpered into the hand still covering his mouth, glancing nervously back in the direction of their camp. How long had that man been silently watching them? While they slept? While they...  
  
He couldn’t think about that now. He had to find Geralt. Put as much distance between them and these new foes as possible. Until they switched back again, they were terribly vulnerable.  
  
As he silently panicked, they came into view. Two bright red heads of hair attached to two uncannily similar-looking women wielding two very intimidating bows. They were quite short, possibly dwarves. Odd for a Nilfgaardian group, but not completely unheard of. A male human, in his late twenties or thirties, was walking ahead of them, massive axe resting on his shoulder. In the back, a man alternated between glaring at them and scanning their surroundings.  
  
Jaskier held his breath and plastered himself to the trunk of a tree as inky black eyes settled dangerously close. There was a soft rustling sound that had drawn his attention towards the bard’s hiding spot.  
  
A long, tense moment where Jaskier thought he might have been spotted, prepared himself to run. Between the leaves, he saw those otherworldly eyes had narrowed, saw a bony hand surreptitiously drawing a stiletto blade.  
  
Just then, a small rodent scampered out of the bushes, freezing in place when it came upon the crew.  
  
Gold eyes squeezed shut at the frantic squeal the poor thing made when Vrart let his blade fly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure why I felt the need to name all these new lil villains (like I said, looots of cheladas) lol but since I have I guess they’ll play a bigger part now :P I haven’t really described them yet, if anyone wants to throw out some neat bad guy descriptions before the next chapter!


	64. Chapter 64

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok so writing chapters ahead of time is the worst because now they’re so long lmfao so I had to cut this one off kind of abruptly to not make ur eyes bleed sorry <3 let me know if you prefer longer chapters, though!

As soon as he crept a healthy distance away, Jaskier swiveled on his heel and sprinted towards the camp. A branch sliced his cheek and he tripped more than once - the last stumble had him losing balance completely, practically somersaulting out of the underbrush, landing unceremoniously at Geralt’s feet.  
  
The other man’s hands were covered in dirt; it looked like he had been burying the fire’s remains, removing any signs that they had been there.  
  
“Thought I was going to have to come find you. How did it go?” He tilted his head to the side, but any amusement on his face vanished when he saw the wild-eyed terror scrawled across Jaskier’s. “What happened? Are you - ”  
  
The bard shook his head and stood, hurrying about the clearing and gathering their pack, the swords, his lute.  
  
“Run - we have to - I _saw_ them, th-they killed a cute little _mouse_ , and - ”  
  
“A mouse? Jask - _Jaskier_ , slow down. Saw who?” Blue eyes narrowed down to slits as they scanned the tree line. “Have they found us?”  
  
That fearful, panicked little nod was all the confirmation he needed. Wasting no time at all, he took one of the swords from Jaskier, grabbed his hand, and tugged him away from the camp.  
  
They moved quickly and quietly through the trees, speaking in low murmurs.  
  
“How many?”  
  
“Four. One of them...I couldn’t hear him move, Geralt. It was like he didn’t exist until - until he spoke. What does that mean?”  
  
“Nothing good.” He honestly had no idea what it could mean. Several things, each worse than the last. “Fuck. We have to get to the second bridge, it’s the only way across. A little ways north. Shouldn’t be too far.”  
  
As they ran, Geralt stumbled, hissing as the movement tugged at his injured side. He would have preferred to remain at camp long enough to gather herbs and brew some sort of healing potion, but their enemies had forced their hand.  
  
Thankfully, he had spent the last few months navigating this tricky terrain. There were three bridges to cross before reaching its end. They needed to find a village as soon as possible, too. It would be another rough night without proper supplies and shelter, and he couldn’t guarantee keeping this body safe and free of sickness without. He hadn’t wanted to alarm Jaskier, but the weather was slowly, surely chipping away at it and taking its toll.  
  
All the same, Jaskier noticed he was in pain and frowned. “Now would be a bloody fantastic time to switch back, wouldn’t it? See how they handle a real Witcher. Unrelated, but have I told you how - how _radiant_ you look today? Love what you’ve done with your - my - hair. Very...er, very avant-garde.”  
  
In reality, dirt, sweat, and the elements had left brown locks in utter disarray, curling and sticking out in every direction. Earlier, it had taken everything in Jaskier not to pin the man down and tame it himself.  
  
Geralt managed to roll his eyes through heaving breaths as a hand reached out to touch him, meriting no cosmic reaction whatsoever. “Don’t think it works like that, Jaskier.”  
  
“Well, it was worth a shot - ”  
  
Somewhere, a twig snapped. Not entirely of his own volition, Jaskier veered to the side and tackled Geralt out of the way as an arrow flew by, burying itself in a tree a few paces ahead. When he glanced up and saw it, the bard let out an undignified shriek.  
  
“Bloody hell!”  
  
“ - _there they are_! - ”  
  
“ - _flank them_ , _don’t let them get away_ \- ”  
  
Several more arrows came dangerously close but Geralt got to his feet quickly, dragging Jaskier up and away by his arm - sparing only a single glance back to gauge the small group’s location. There was still a fair bit of distance between them.  
  
Though the bridge was north, the duo started weaving erratically through a denser part of the jungle, heading east to throw their attackers off.  
  
Eventually, their path was interrupted by a steep, grassy drop. It was heavily lined with gnarled trees, difficult to tell where it stopped. Wide, too - there seemed to be no viable way around.  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“Okay. Okay, Jaskier. You can do this.” Jaskier crinkled his nose, struggling to unsheathe the blade on his back and standing protectively in front of Geralt. “They can’t kill you, so that’s a plus. But they _can_ maim you, so - no. Don’t think about it. Just close your eyes, stab, and run.”  
  
Behind him, the Witcher furrowed his brow. “First of all, Jaskier, _do not_ close your eyes during a fucking swordfight. Don’t know how many times I have to tell you that.” He shook his head in disbelief. “Second, we’re jumping.”  
  
“ _What_?” Jaskier swiveled, forcing the other man to duck as he haphazardly brought the blade around with him. “Sorry, blasted - did you say _jump_? Down _that_?”  
  
There was shouting in the distance. The arrows had stopped, which meant their pursuers didn’t yet have a clear shot.  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“But - how _steep_ is it?”  
  
With a sigh, Geralt gestured for him to come closer. As he angled his body and craned his neck to peer over the ledge, however, Jaskier noticed a bright patch of red staining the side of his fresh shirt, just over the stitched-up wound. It reached the waistline of his pants. A _lot_ of blood. Too much -  
  
“Wait, Geralt, you’re - ”  
  
He looked up in time to see the other man’s eyes flutter and start to roll back in his head. With a shout, Jaskier dropped the sword and caught him just before he could topple over - the weight of his body, that he was suddenly unable to support, had them both teetering dangerously.  
  
Not quite unconscious, fighting it with every ounce of his being, Geralt tried grabbing onto one of the hanging vines to steady them -  
  
He caught one, but another wave of dizziness had his knees giving out, had him applying too much pressure too fast. The thing snapped and gave, which threw them both off-kilter; Jaskier managed to wrap his arms tightly around the other man as they both pitched over the edge.  
  
They landed heavily in the grass below but the incline was so steep that they continued rolling all the way down. Jaskier did his best to shield Geralt from the worst of the damage, cringing as they rolled over rocks, branches, and jarring, nauseating bumps in the ground. The whole world was spinning and he had very little concept of what was up and what was down, thought he might be sick if it continued any longer -  
  
With a loud splash, they finally landed in what felt like a very shallow, very cold stream. Jaskier groaned beneath the weight of his own body that had - thankfully - ended up on top of him.  
  
“I’ll say it again, for good measure - bloody _hell_ , Geralt.” An elbow was digging into his ribs and, gently, he eased it back. “Are you all right?”  
  
In response, the man shifted in his arms, poking his head up. Brilliant blue eyes, looking a little distant from blood loss, peered down and examined him for any obvious signs of injury. Finding none, with a bit of difficulty, he straightened up to survey their new surroundings.  
  
“Fine. A stitch ripped.” Nimble fingers brushed against his side, feeling the wetness on his shirt. “Looks worse than it is, already starting to clot. Why do you _faint_ so fucking much? Is it - do you eat enough protein?” He didn’t wait for the answer, which was pretty much just Jaskier stammering about how the sight of blood made him queasy. “Where the fuck are we?”  
  
Jaskier glanced around the large clearing. It seemed they were in the lower level of the jungle, some sort of pit. A pretty pit, though. The stream they had landed in was only a few inches deep, slightly frozen over, and surrounded by a vast expanse of tiny wildflowers. It was being fed by a very narrow waterfall trickling out over the ledge.  
  
“Hard to say. Somewhere up shit creek, perhaps?”  
  
Geralt snorted. “With or without a paddle?”  
  
“Oh, _definitely_ without.” Jaskier propped himself up on his elbows, shivering when a cool breeze teased through the soaking wet material of his tunic. Through the foliage, he could just barely make out the ledge they had tumbled over. “Do you think we lost them?”  
  
“Not likely. Got to keep moving.”  
  
“Keep - ? You’re _injured_ \- ”  
  
Geralt started to hoist himself up but lost his footing somewhere along the way, not quite used to Jaskier’s gangly limbs. His boot slipped in the slick water and he plopped right back down with a tiny splash, now straddling the firm waist beneath.  
  
He caught himself, planting his hands on either side of Jaskier’s shoulders just as two strong arms instinctively came up to steady him but, upon realizing their new position, both men froze. Their faces had ended up dangerously close, lips inches apart.  
  
Struggling to gather himself, Jaskier swallowed thickly - the sound of it was far too loud, cutting through the sudden silence that had enveloped them.  
  
“Funny how we always end up in this position, isn’t it?”  
  
Not really a question, just a soft, rhetorical murmur as gold eyes studied the face above. So strange how Geralt, even when he wasn’t actively trying, managed to morph the bard’s features until he looked very much like himself:  
  
Mouth set into a hard line. Jaw clenched, brows knitted together in concentration. Even usually wide, bright blue eyes seemed more intense, more feline - though that was perhaps a stretch, and maybe due to the fact that Geralt had them narrowed at all times.  
  
“Funny.” Geralt agreed, sounding distracted. Those eyes flicked down to where their lips were still hovering incredibly close, practically breathing into each other’s mouths. “Though I’d prefer different circumstances.”  
  
Jaskier found he was suddenly seized with the need to kiss the other man. They hadn’t kissed in some time and, though he wasn’t exactly thrilled by the idea of excavating his own tonsils, it was still _Geralt_ in there and in the heat of the moment, that was all that mattered.  
  
“Circumstances be damned.” Jaskier replied - quite smoothly, in his opinion - before reaching up and brushing away an errant clump of wet, brown bangs. He used that same hand and that same motion to cradle the back of the other’s head, drawing him closer and finding he was met with absolutely no resistance at all.  
  
The soft puffs of breath ghosting across his face had him practically melting but before their lips could meet, an abrupt sound above drew Jaskier’s attention - albeit very reluctantly - away.  
  
Geralt frowned, unable to hear what had the other on suddenly high alert. His whole body had gone inexplicably warm - and _fuzzy_ \- and his heart thumped so aggressively in his chest that it drowned out almost all other sound.  
  
Any other time, he would perhaps find it endearing how reactive the bard’s body was. Now, however, it only served as a distraction.  
  
“Jask - ?”  
  
He was cut off by a hand gently clasping over his mouth, Jaskier blatantly ignoring the way he glared at the contact before squinting down in obvious irritation.  
  
Before he could try to speak again, Jaskier put a finger to his own lips, jerking his head up at the ledge.  
  
“They can’t possibly have gone all the way down there.” One of the twins. “Can they? There’s a sword here. Maybe they did. Can’t see shit, though. Why is it so foggy?”  
  
“Temperature change. And if they have, they’ll be forced to come up eventually. No other way out of this hellhole.” Stet. “Fucking pains in the arse. All right, let’s regroup. I have another idea. We’ll cut - ”  
  
Suddenly, that silky smooth voice came out of seemingly nowhere. It gave Jaskier instant, surprisingly violent chills, the tremors from which had Geralt’s annoyance dissolving into confused concern. His eyes darted down to the amulet resting in plain sight on the broad chest below. Vibrating violently.  
  
“Let’s not give our plans away so easily, eh, Stet? Never know who’s listening.”  
  
“You know better than to creep up like, Vrart. What’s gotten into you? We’re all armed to the fucking teeth - ”  
  
Their voices faded as they trudged off. Jaskier let out the soft whimper he had been holding in - his body had gone rigid but as soon as they left he sagged into the water.  
  
“What did they say, Jaskier?”  
  
“Oh, you know. Usual bad guy stuff. Only way out is up. Through them, of course. And they have some sort of dastardly plan they didn’t want me hearing.” He let his head fall back, whining when he remembered there was frigid water below. “Can we just stay down here forever, Geralt? We’ve got water, plenty of...trees? What more do we need, really?”  
  
Geralt chuckled, shifting - trying not to think about the sudden, surprised groan it elicited from the other man when he accidentally brushed against a very tender spot - and standing. He had to appreciate the rare moments of concentration he did get from the bard after all this, at least. It was very, _very_ difficult to switch gears as easily as he was accustomed to.  
  
“I know you’re scared, but we need to get to Yen’s. It’s not safe here.” He offered a hand, which the bard took gratefully. “Besides, they’ll come down eventually.”  
  
Both men were soaking wet - not good in such unpredictable weather - and most of their belongings had spilled out on the way down. Too steep to climb back up and retrieve them, but there were a few less treacherous ways up that Geralt had pinpointed as soon as they landed. The sooner they crossed the bridge and found any semblance of civilization, the better.  
  
Deciding that he probably should tend to his injury first, though, the Witcher started picking his way along the stream in search of herbs to make a quick healing poultice.  
  
The fall had also aggravated Jaskier’s healing arrow wound, and though he tried to help, Geralt insisted he remain seated and heal up until it was time to move out.  
  
It was early afternoon by the time Geralt had applied the poultice and wrapped the wound in fresh bandages. That would have to do. It seemed the snow had slowed or stopped, allowing the sun to come out - it didn’t reach them this deep in the jungle but the scant amount of warmth that did was a blessing.  
  
Jaskier was seated in a patch of flowers a few paces away with his back to Geralt, hunched over and working very diligently on something.  
  
“Let’s get moving. As soon as we make it up, we run. Directly to the bridge.” A sigh as he padded over to the other man, who hadn’t yet turned around. “We haven’t switched back yet, for whatever fucking reason. Down a sword, too, but I can hold my own against two or three. The archers might pose a problem. Hopefully it won’t come to - Jaskier, are you listening to me? What the fuck are you doing?”  
  
The bard spun around quite dramatically, a sunny smile on his face as he held out his hands to show Geralt what he had been working on.  
  
There, cupped in his palms, were two separate lengths of brightly-colored wildflowers that had been woven neatly together. They were reinforced with sturdy plaits made from reeds picked from the stream.  
  
“What am I looking at?”  
  
“Bracelets!”  
  
“Bracelets.” Geralt deadpanned, watching as the other man scrambled to his feet and hobbled over. There was a flower sticking out from behind his ear, as well. “ _Why_ , Jaskier?”  
  
“I don’t understand the question.” Large, sturdy fingers fumbled, struggling to tie the two ends together. With a groan, Geralt grudgingly used the slender thumb of his free hand to hold them in place. “Why _not_? The frost was killing them, anyway. And look, I put a buttercup in yours. Get it? Because you’re inside my - well, not...I mean you’re _trapped_ inside - _in_ , the right word is _in_ \- ”  
  
It was a kindness to put a stop to Jaskier’s train of thought, sometimes, before it became irreconcilably derailed.  
  
“I, uh - I get it.” Geralt cleared his throat. “Ready to go?”  
  
As they headed to the north corner of the tiny valley they had fallen in and prepared to climb up, Jaskier didn’t catch the way the Witcher glanced down at the bracelet dangling from his wrist, face softening considerably when his thumb brushed against the tiny, yellow flower weaved into its center.

♜ ♖

The climb up was tedious, but mostly uneventful. Geralt instructed Jaskier to listen intently and let him know of any suspicious sounds above. There were none, which was suspicious in and of itself but they had no other choice but to press forward and stay as alert as possible.  
  
They neared the bridge in the early evening, having gone the long way around - off the main road, through the dense jungle. As soon as they broke through the underbrush and rushed across the path, however, they realized the bridge was no longer a viable option.  
  
In fact, it had been completely destroyed. There was no evidence of a fire, no scent or smoke, but it looked like it had been burned to hell and back.  
  
Jaskier gasped and hurried to the edge of the cliff, one hand brushing against what remained of the wood structure. It was too far for them to cross without, too sheer and steep for them to climb down.  
  
“Geralt, what could have done this? This is...is this _magic_? It smells like - like sulphur, and - ”  
  
“I don’t know. We need to get the fuck out of here, though.” Geralt hissed, abruptly kicking the charred wooden pole. These bridges were the only connection the coast had to the rest of the world. Merchants and traders passed through them, providing valuable resources. “Fucking bastards.”  
  
Not to mention it was unbelievably inconvenient. They had to find another way over. It looked like the bridge had only recently been demolished, though neither had anticipated that their attackers would play so dirty. Or, conversely, have that much power. He grabbed Jaskier’s hand, pulling him away from the edge.  
  
As the pair ran back towards the safety of the jungle to regroup, however, Jaskier stumbled over a root and lurched forward, straining Geralt’s arm where their hands were still attached. Just then, something rocketed out from the dark shadows pooling in the underbrush and caught the bard directly in the chest, sending him flying back.  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
Geralt drew his sword and started to run to him but as soon as he did, a huge battle axe spun out from behind a tree, embedding itself in the ground at his feet. Too close. Would have hit home if he hadn’t quickly moved a few paces back to help Jaskier.  
  
Fuck this feeling of vulnerability. It held him down, like the body he was in weighed twenty times more than his own. Couldn’t fault Jaskier, either. He didn’t know what to smell or listen for. He didn’t know what was good and bad in the world, not really, not in the sense Geralt did -  
  
“Ah, ah, ah. Your fight’s with me.”  
  
The man who had spoken casually trudged out from the bushes and over to his weapon, picking it back up with remarkable ease. Behind him, two small women slunk into view - one gave Geralt a cheeky little wave. Twins. _Dwarven_ twins.  
  
While they had been by the stream, Jaskier had told him their names but he had trouble remembering them. Only recalled the fact that they were from Nilfgaard, which made them dangerous.  
  
“Hi, handsome! Love your body.” The one who waved let out a playful giggle behind her mask, eyes gesturing over to where Jaskier was currently wrestling on the ground with the fourth member of their crew. That was a _person_? He had hit the bard with such speed and force, Geralt heard _ribs_ break - “Think I might take it for a spin before we head back. See what all the fuss is about.”  
  
“What the fuck, Narra?” The axe-wielding man turned to her, scowling. Stilt or...Stet, maybe? “I thought we had something.”  
  
The second woman snickered. “She’s _insatiable_ \- ”  
  
Realizing what they were talking about - like he would let _any_ of that happen - Geralt growled and adjusted the grip he had on his blade, switching to a two-handed stance so he could wield it more efficiently with Jaskier’s untrained arms.  
  
“Over my dead fucking body.”  
  
“Duh.” ‘Narra’ rolled her eyes, leaning on her massive bow as though it were a walking stick. “That’s the _point_ , silly.”  
  
After that, the fight began. She hopped nimbly back as Geralt swung at her. He was then forced to dive to the ground and roll out of the way as Stet tried chopping him down with his axe. With that heavy of a weapon, he was slow and would topple easily, but as anticipated, the two agile archers were making things far more difficult.  
  
“Geralt! Ger - fuck _off_!” Jaskier swung and kicked at the man on top of him, his whole body practically shaking with how forcefully the Witcher’s amulet was going off. “What _is_ that? Why is it - ow! Watch the lute, _Vrart_! Nice name, by the way - _not_.”  
  
The bard knew these people couldn’t kill him, not while he was in Geralt’s body - and he had to remind himself that he _was_ in Geralt’s body, was strong and could hold his own well enough if he just trusted in those wonderfully sculpted muscles.  
  
With that thought, he reeled his fist back and delivered a cracking blow to Vrart’s jaw. He had used enough force to stagger or even knock out any ordinary man, but his attacker only laughed and bore down on him harder.  
  
On the other side of the road, Geralt was impressively holding his own. Jaskier caught glimpses of him every so often - dodging blows from the man, deflecting arrows and fielding back the two women. One seemed to get the drop on him and he stumbled as an arrow just barely grazed his shoulder, but -  
  
Taking advantage of the distraction, Vrart pinned Jaskier. After he did, he paused overhead long enough to lower his mask - his face was incredibly calm despite the fact that he was exerting quite a bit of effort to keep the bard in place.  
  
He gestured to the flailing wrist currently clutched, vice-like, in his hand.  
  
“If I break this, how fast will it heal?”  
  
When Jaskier didn’t answer - not with his words, at least, though he landed a kick that he was sure broke _some_ part of this unflinching maniac’s body - unimaginably strong fingers tightened their grip, grinding the bones together and making him cry out. He desperately tried freeing himself from the equally strong legs trapping him. Black dotted his vision as one, having wrapped around his neck, squeezed.  
  
“How fast? Are we talking hours, or days?”  
  
“F- _fuck_ you - ”  
  
“Huh.” Vrart used his free hand to tap his mouth in an exaggerated yawn. “Boring answer. Guess I’ll just find out the fun way.” Jet-black eyes landed on the floral bracelet, the idea of which seemed so silly now. Should’ve spent that time building a bloody cannon, or something. “ _Pretty_.”  
  
With that, and one easy movement, Vrart snapped the bone. The crunch it made and Jaskier’s pained howls filled the rapidly darkening space, had Geralt’s head shooting up. It nearly cost him his life when Stet swung at him again. He managed to step of the way of the axe - it ended up embedded deeply in the trunk of a tree - and used his sword to block another blow from one of the women, who had put away her bow and drawn a short blade of her own.  
  
Jaskier’s screams dissolved into panicked gasps and he forced himself to look away from how limply his hand was currently dangling, as if by a single thread. Vrart released his wrist, shifting until he was perched comfortably atop the bard’s chest.  
  
The way he moved was off, slinky, and wrong. Almost reptilian. Through the white-hot agony of a freshly-broken bone, Jaskier bucked and writhed, eyes wide and terrified. How was this man so strong? He looked frail, like he hadn’t eaten a sturdy meal in _weeks_ -  
  
“What’s the matter? Is this face too off-putting? He _was_ an ugly sod, but beggars can’t be choosers. Hold on, hold on. I can tell you appreciate the finer things. Let me change into something _prettier_.”  
  
Vrart beamed excitedly down at Jaskier, as if he was about to show him a new toy - the bard shrieked and tried wriggling free with renewed vigor as the man’s neck snapped back with a sickening crack. His head hung limply between his shoulder blades, obscured from view, and the horrible sounds of bones breaking and cartilage shifting assaulted Jaskier’s newly-sensitive ears.  
  
After a moment, with a breathy moan, Vrart’s head jolted and rolled slowly back in place. When it did, he was sporting the heart-shaped face of a beautiful woman. A forked, pink tongue darted out to wet luscious, cherry red lips. Raven hair, down to his waist at the very least, tickled Jaskier’s cheek.  
  
“Better?”


	65. Chapter 65

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I felt bad leaving them in the balance all weekend like that sooooooooo here’s another update! Two days in a row, bam! Longer chapters will be starting after this one, it’s nice out and I’m going to see some nature with my pup tomorrow!
> 
> Can anyone guess what animal the new baddie is based on??? One of my personal faves. It’s only partially related so it won’t really be a spoiler :)

“Better?”  
  
Those eyes - long lashes, heavily rimmed with charcoal, but the irises were wrong, still an unnerving, all-encompassing pitch black - peered down at him curiously.  
  
“Holy - _fucking_ \- seven hells - _no_! Not better!” Fear gripped Jaskier’s heart, its icy claws making it hard for him to breathe. Though imbued with Geralt’s strength, he felt like an inferior insect pinned beneath the powerful legs of a praying mantis. “Worse, much, _much_ worse - Ger, gods, _Geralt_! He’s a - we’ve got a doppler over here! What do I - _fuck_ me, where’s the bloody silver - ”  
  
Vrart’s heavy, bright red bottom lip jutted out in a childish frown.  
  
“No, not a doppler.”  
  
Jaskier’s writhing and obscene cursing stopped momentarily.  
  
“Well, then, what the hell are you?”  
  
“Really thought the tongue would tip you off.” His voice was a deep, sultry rasp as he dangled the impossibly long, forked appendage in front of Jaskier’s face, flicking at his cheek and earning a repulsed ‘ _eww_.’ “I’d give a little preview, but unfortunately, I’m not allowed to eat you. At least, not while you’re in there.”  
  
The varnished nail of a pointer finger tapped the bard’s forehead, laughter bubbling forth above when he flinched.  
  
“Great. Good. Glad to hear it. Didn’t know _eating_ me was on the table to begin with, so,” he punctuated every word with a violent thrash, though with the unnaturally heavy being parked on his chest, his kicks didn’t reach or land, “thanks for the heads up.”  
  
“Oh, don’t be like that. You were a fantastic placeholder, but I’m afraid I don’t need you anymore. Going to take this pretty body back to my master myself. Cut out the middle man, as they say.”  
  
“ _Master_? Who - ”  
  
Vrart ignored him, continued speaking in a bored, airy manner.  
  
“Small problem, though. Need a blood sacrifice if I’m going to force you out.” He turned his head nearly full-circle to survey the battle going on behind them - the twins, who were still trying to pin Geralt down and Stet, who was attempting to dislodge his axe from the tree. “Hmm. _Who_ to pick?” With a soft _snap_ , his head spun back to Jaskier. “Who d’you think?”  
  
The bard closed his mouth quickly, refusing to answer but watching in absolute horror as Vrart drew a medium-sized, three-pronged blade from his belt.  
  
“Come, now. Pick one. We haven’t got all night.” He absentmindedly used his weapon to toy with the bracelet on Jaskier’s shattered wrist, eliciting an agonized cry as it aggravated the rapidly swelling, purpling wound. “It’s all right if you choose one of my associates. They’re terribly dull.”  
  
“ _Ah_ \- y-you’re out of your bloody _mind_ if you think I’m going to pick someone to _die_ \- ”  
  
“Killjoy. I thought you’d at least _attempt_ to spare your lover. Okay, new plan. Let’s see who’s _it_. That’s something you humans respect, right? The rules of _tag_?” He started gesturing, without looking back, from one to another with his blade. “Now, tell me if I’m doing this wrong. Eenie, me-e-enie - ”  
  
“Wait, wait, wait - ”  
  
“ - mi-i-i-ney - ”  
  
“Just hang _on_! I, uh, I pick - ”  
  
It landed on Geralt last. As Vrart grinned and said “moe,” Jaskier panicked and shouted “no!” while trying to swipe the weapon away, at least disrupt its trajectory, but his flailing, injured arm was a split-second too late. The blade was already sailing through the air, incredibly fast.  
  
At the same time, Stet managed to free his axe. Too caught up in the battle to keep track of what was going on behind him, he charged at Geralt, coincidentally stepping directly in the weapon’s path.  
  
It had been heading for Geralt’s skull but lodged itself dead-center in Stet’s back, causing him to lurch forward, staggering as he struggled to remain standing.  
  
“Ooh.” Vrart clicked his tongue, squirming excitedly atop Jaskier and jostling what was starting to feel like a cracked rib. “Lucky, lucky. It’s not like the fates to reward indecision, but seems they’re smiling on you and your sweetheart today, friend.”  
  
“What the hell, Vrart? You _missed_! Are you fuckin’ blind - ” One of the twins - it was getting very difficult to tell them apart, especially with all the commotion - stopped short and sucked in a shocked breath when she caught sight of his new face. It was craning back at a playful, but painful-looking angle to smile at her. “... _Vrart_?“  
  
He lowered his voice in a mockery of her deeper tone and heavy accent. “ _Hullo_ , Narra.”  
  
The whole fight had come to an abrupt halt and she rushed forward to catch Stet before he fell. “You’re a doppler?”  
  
Geralt was still brandishing his blade but rather than take advantage of the distraction, he used the lull in battle to examine the creature straddling Jaskier. What was it? It changed faces, but dopplers were very rarely instruments of evil. And that _tongue_...  
  
It released a heavy, burdened sigh. “ _No_. Why does everyone think that?”  
  
“Who _are_ you?” The much more timid voice of Ninna. “What have you done with Vrart? We’ve been running with him since we were small, he’s not a _shapeshifter_ \- ”  
  
“Oh. Your friend is most definitely dead.” Vrart - or, apparently _not_ Vrart - chuckled softly. “Actually a funny story - didn’t mean to kill him outright, but I forgot how to use _stairs_ , of all things. Snapped his neck on the way down. He was _so_ scared. Hey, will you tell that human to hurry up and croak, already? I’m on a tight schedule. Chop, chop.”  
  
“Dead?” Ninna’s hand flew to her mouth. “You _murdered_ Vrart?”  
  
Things were rapidly spiraling out of control. It didn’t seem the three attacking Geralt were very interested in him anymore, all facing a new threat. Stet was bleeding profusely, Narra ignoring the being’s wishes and desperately searching her pockets for a potion while calling his name.  
  
Deciding it was worth the risk to leave himself unarmed if it meant saving Jaskier - and at that point, he highly doubted the others would try anything - Geralt adjusted his grip on the sword, reeling it back over his shoulder and volleying it directly at the beast with a powerful, well-aimed thrust.  
  
The weapon hit home, embedding itself deeply into one soulless eye, the tip of it wet with blood and protruding out from the other side.  
  
As if striking a corpse, however, his head simply, soundlessly, jerked to the side from the force of the blow. Strong thighs tightened considerably around Jaskier’s chest, allowing Vrart to stay upright. He remained completely unfettered as the bard, shaking with effort, used all of his strength to try prying himself free - his arms were unhindered but the blows he landed seemed to have absolutely no effect.  
  
“Aw, my pretty face is ruined.” With a churlish huff, Vrart extracted the sword with a squelch. A heavy pool of red spilled out and splashed onto Jaskier’s face as he did - he could hardly hold back terrified, frantic screams when he saw the eye beneath had been utterly decimated, ocular fluid diluting the blood. “I designed it after one of my good friends, a lovely bruxa. She would _weep_ if she saw this.”  
  
“Let him go.” Geralt hissed, barely managing to duck out of the way as the bloodied sword came rocketing right back towards him.  
  
“Ugh. _Tedious_. Guess I’ll have to finish the job myself.” Vrart groaned, started rummaging through Jaskier’s pockets - ignoring the pained grunts he received when he poked and prodded a little too roughly. Eventually, he produced a small dagger from Geralt’s hidden arsenal and stood in one fluid motion, turning to his companions. “No thanks to my coworkers. Hand him over.”  
  
“Never.” Narra snarled, dragging the semi-conscious man back. He was far larger than either woman and unable to support his own weight. If they ran with him in tow, they wouldn’t make it very far, but she didn’t seem keen on the idea of giving him up. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to go down. This wasn’t in the _contract_. You - who are you working for?”  
  
Vrart shrugged, stepping closer - he seemed to enjoy the way the foursome shuffled back in response. “Same person as you, I would imagine. Nothing personal, but it’s like I said - tight schedule. Decided to take matters into my own hands.” He wiggled his fingers with a gleeful smile. “I get it! That saying is far more amusing when you actually _do_ have hands!”  
  
Jaskier had been floundering on the ground, trying to block out the searing pain in his wrist. When he saw Vrart facing the others - Geralt in particular - however, something unfamiliar and primal kicked in.  
  
The Witcher picked up on the sudden change in his stance, eyes widening. “Jaskier, _don’t_ \- ”  
  
Despite the fact that he had only just escaped and he absolutely did _not_ want to be trapped by those mighty legs again, his body moved without permission, lunging at the creature’s back and trying to wrestle the blade away.  
  
“Not - exactly - in _control_ , here - _Geralt_!” Jaskier shouted back, practically piggybacking Vrart, who seemed only mildly annoyed by the sudden inconvenience.  
  
With a sigh, he snatched Jaskier’s broken wrist with deadly precision, squeezing tightly and using that contact to toss him over his head and across the clearing.  
  
“Oh, dear. Aren’t you supposed to be some sort of weak, cowardly...poet, or something?” Vrart’s single eye squinted at Jaskier. “Seems my curse is unraveling a bit. Have you two been messing around? Switching unexpectedly? Wouldn’t _that_ be a disaster.”  
  
He cackled but didn’t wait for an answer - didn’t seem to really care either way. When he whirled back around to the women, Geralt, and Stet, however, Narra - who had nocked an arrow as soon as the short-lived fight broke out - released her bowstring.  
  
The projectile impaled Vrart’s remaining eye before he had fully turned. He staggered, like a marionette with one of its strings cut.  
  
“Now, _that’s_ just cruel. I have abysmal hearing.”  
  
Laughing at some unknown joke, the beast wobbled about, shoulders shaking with mirth. Blood splattered at his feet as he yanked out the arrow, revealing a bloodied hole where his second eye had been.  
  
”Really, I haven’t any external ears.” A pale hand came up, lifting back the veil of silky black hair and revealing a blank, flawless stretch of skin where an ear _should_ have been. “See?”  
  
Ninna looked about to scream, but Narra instinctively clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide as they watched Vrart stumble and feel around the space to get his bearings.  
  
Jaskier tried to sit up, tasting iron at the back of his throat. He had crashed into a tree, his cracked ribs most certainly breaking completely on impact. Excruciating. He felt compelled to get up, to keep _trying_ , but Geralt shot him a dangerous, almost desperate look that had him freezing in place.  
  
Had he not been in the Witcher’s body, he would have passed out ages ago. And if it weren’t for the danger, for the humanoid monstrosity currently lurching about before them, he would have welcomed unconsciousness. Anything to get away from the constant, torturous waves of pain.  
  
“Hello-o-o?” Vrart called out in a sing-song voice, arms flailing and coming dangerously close to where the twins were now attempting to quietly drag Stet away. He was brandishing both the dagger and the bloody arrow. “Narra, be a dear and _give me that human_ , will you? This’ll be the last time I ask nicely. Now, I know, I _know_ , he’s your chosen flavor of the week, but my blade tagged him it and we _must_ respect the rules of tag. They are...sacred here, right?” A pregnant pause. “ _Anyone_?”  
  
Nobody dared make a sound. Or move. The specific mention of a lack of _external_ ears implied the existence of _internal_ ears, which meant that though he likely couldn’t hear their voices very well - if at all - he would be able to pick up on vibrations.  
  
Geralt caught Jaskier’s gaze once more. With his eyes, he silently gestured down to his left hand, which was repeatedly forming what looked to be one of the motions he used for his signs. When the bard frowned in confusion and mouthed ‘what?’ he puffed out his cheeks and used his other hand to mimic an explosion.  
  
Understanding _almost_ immediately - silent communication wasn’t really his forte - Jaskier winced and lifted his uninjured arm, started attempting to replicate the action. Open palm, fingers splayed out in a very specific way, move them just like...  
  
He soundlessly jerked his hand in the direction of the beast, but nothing happened. Stubbornly, he tried again, Geralt’s stoic nods and gestures from across the clearing encouraging and reassuring him.  
  
Vrart did a clumsy little spin, pointing at a random spot to his left. Two feet away from where the trio had nearly reached the tree line.  
  
“Aha! Got you? No. You know, I’ll be getting my eyes back shortly. If you don’t do this for me before then, Narra, I will cut your sister’s heart out and _eat_ it while you watch. Let me be clear that I don’t _have_ to eat it. I’ll just be doing it out of spite.”  
  
Jaskier thrust his hand out for a fourth time, stifling a weak cry when, infuriatingly, nothing came of it. He was sweating profusely now, hand tangling in silver locks between each failure.  
  
Bleary gold eyes landed on Geralt again, finding solace in his calm, instructive demeanor. He mimed taking an exaggeratedly deep breath in without any of the noise or actual inhaling, counting to four on his fingers.  
  
Right, the breathing.  
  
Just then, Stet burbled wetly, instantly drawing Vrart’s attention. He darted forward inhumanly fast but Jaskier had stood, casting the sign once more and -  
  
Instantly, where he aimed his palm - beneath Vrart’s feet - several bright purple cones of light sprung up in a circle on the ground. As the creature’s boot landed on one, it sparked to life and shortly exploded in a brilliant flurry of crackling violet energy.  
  
“ _Run_!” Geralt roared. Everyone scattered and he sprinted to Jaskier, fisting a hand in the back of his shirt and forcefully dragging him off. They moved away from the path, heading west along the tree-lined canyon.  
  
The twins did the same with Stet, sparing only a single - not very friendly _or_ grateful - glance at the other two before disappearing into the dark underbrush.  
  
Vrart had hissed and recoiled at the first explosion, faltering a few steps to the left and landing on another cone, which blew out his injured leg completely.  
  
As Geralt and Jaskier hurried away - the bard trying his best to bite back any curses or cries at the movement - they heard the sound of several more blasts and monstrous screeches behind them, fading as they ran.  
  
“Don’t think that will kill it,” Geralt muttered through gritted teeth, using the sword he had retrieved to slice at any vines that dared get in their way, “but it will buy us some time.”


	66. Chapter 66

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I was gonna post this last night but got caught up with baking my mom the Worst Cake in the World! Tfw the whole table bursts out laughing upon taking their first bite<3 just chef things<3
> 
> Also I always die a lil when I end with a dramatic Geralt one-liner as I did in the last chap bc I picture Jask just standing there like ....ok AND???? IS there more?? for however long it takes me to post the next update

Jaskier trailed behind Geralt, periodically grabbing onto trees and branches for support. He was nauseated by the occasional crunch that came from his chest as his ribs slowly, arduously, _vocally_ knitted themselves back together. Not a pleasant experience, and he decided he would take good old-fashioned, natural healing over it any day.  
  
His wrist and the palm of his hand had swelled terribly, too - every movement was agony, forcing him to keep the injured limb cradled against his chest to prevent any unnecessary jostling.  
  
As always, there were more pressing matters. Chills ran through Jaskier when he thought back to the state not-Vrart had been in when they abruptly fucked off - and that was _before_ stepping on at least four more yrden traps. For Geralt to still consider him a threat...  
  
“So, uh, what did you mean when you said that won’t kill it?” His voice was rough and too loud as it bounced off the trees - he cringed before lowering it considerably. “He had no _eyes_ , Geralt. And his leg was destroyed. Call me crazy, but I really don’t think an enemy with missing - ” a momentary pause when he thought back to Forle, “ - with _several_ missing - ”  
  
“Let me stop you right there.” Ahead of him, carving a path in the overgrown underbrush, Geralt’s tone was hushed but vexed beyond belief, tinged with - was that fear? “Doesn’t fucking matter how much damage we inflicted. It’s going to regenerate, and when it does,” he grimaced as he swung his blade, “it’ll come for us.”  
  
“ _How_? And do you happen to know what ‘it’ is, Geralt? Mind cluing me in, or do you need to brood for another painfully suspenseful twenty minutes?”  
  
“Don’t know exactly.” As the Witcher spoke, he sawed at a particularly thick vine, motions needlessly aggressive. “Looks like possession, but it could be anything in there. Definitely demonic. Strong. _Old_. Summoned into that body by _someone_. Won’t stop until its purpose is fulfilled.” A pause in the hacking, long enough for his entire body to shiver violently. “It’s fucking cold.”  
  
“We should make camp, warm you up - ”  
  
“Got to keep moving.”  
  
“Well - _where_?”  
  
“Across.”  
  
The bard gazed to their left at the yawning, inky-black maw of the canyon and cringed. They had been moving through the jungle alongside it to keep their sense of direction, though there were no signs of any other means by which they could cross.  
  
“How exactly are we meant to accomplish that? Have you forgotten that...that _thing_ destroyed the only bridge? And if you answer with less than five words again I will have a _conniption_ , Geralt. Honestly. It’s like pulling teeth with you.”  
  
Releasing a heavy sigh, the Witcher stopped short and turned to him, resting the broad side of the sword on his shoulder. The moonlight shifted, giving Jaskier a full, disturbing view of how utterly exhausted he looked. Dark circles, eyes bloodshot. There was a nasty scrape on his temple, blood carving a path through the grime coating his face.  
  
“As soon as we come across a tall enough tree on the edge, we cut it down. Make a bridge.”  
  
Despite himself, Jaskier snorted. “That can’t be a real solution. That sounds _ridiculous_. There’s no way a - oi!”  
  
As he was poking fun, the other man - who had rolled his eyes and turned back around, sword raised and ready to chop at another vine - suddenly faltered. He teetered for a moment before swaying dangerously to the side, sword arm losing its strength and dropping with a heavy _clunk_.  
  
Jaskier, painfully aware that they were very close to yet another dangerous ledge, yelped and dove forward. He caught the other’s wrist with his good hand to stabilize him before he could tip over.  
  
“Geralt, are you all right? You know, that’s the second time in one...day...”  
  
He was shocked by how scalding the delicate wrist trapped in his rough fingers felt, voice dying in his throat when the other man’s entire body tensed.  
  
There was a peculiar expression on his face: watery blue eyes, nostrils flaring, nose twitching -  
  
Jaskier didn’t need to wait long to find out what was causing it when, abruptly - and with those eyes still _wide_ open - Geralt sneezed directly in his face.  
  
“Ah, _gross_ , Geralt! You - ”  
  
A second, terrifyingly open-eyed sneeze cut him off.  
  
“Bloody hell! Stop it! Or at least cover your - ”  
  
“ _Fuck_ \- ha - _choo_!”  
  
The bard tried ducking out of the way of that last one - which, to his displeasure, sounded vaguely like a jolting, sneezy ‘fuck you’ - but was unable to put enough space between them without breaking contact. The combination of confusion, frustration and _slight_ panic on the other man’s face had him softening his tone.  
  
“O-o-okay. Okay. Shh. Just breathe, Geralt. They come in fives for me, I’m so - ” another sneeze - one he _did_ manage to dodge - followed by a harsh glare, “I’m so sorry. But that’s four, and - yep, there it is. Five.”  
  
“What the fuck is happening to me?” Geralt growled accusingly, though the little snuffles and sniffles he was periodically making sucked all the heat out of the scathing scowl he sported. “I’m - why am I leaking?”  
  
The bard’s initial disgust at being sneezed on not once, not twice, but _thrice_ evaporated immediately when he took in the redness of Geralt’s cheeks and mentally added it to the heat pouring off pale, flushed skin.  
  
Oh, no. Perfect fucking timing.  
  
“Shit.” Tentatively, because he felt a bit like he was soothing a small, frightened animal, he placed a palm on Geralt’s forehead. “Bollocks.”  
  
An annoyed huff, followed by a sullen sniffle. “What is it, Jaskier?”  
  
“You’re burning up.” He let his hand linger for a moment, eyes searching the other man for any other concerning symptoms. “ _Shit_.”  
  
Geralt jerked away, frown deepening. “Not possible. I’ve been keeping an eye on my temperature.” It was true, he had been, almost compulsively, but he forgot one fatally important thing about fevers. “There’s no way I have a fucking - ”  
  
“Fever. Yes, you do. You can’t feel your body’s temperature with your own hand, Geralt. Just feels like...what’s that _face_? Why does it look very much like the one you make before you say - ”  
  
“This is your fault.”  
  
Jaskier threw his arms up in exasperation, forgetting one was still broken. Geralt looked on, snotty and resentful, as the bard cursed loudly and did a very silly little dance before stopping, exhaling heavily, and rounding on him again.  
  
“Just _how_ is this my fault?”  
  
“Your body.” There was very little venom in Geralt’s voice - after making sure Jaskier hadn’t broken anything else he gazed off to the side, looking quite disinterested in the budding argument. “Its natural defenses are shit.”  
  
“I’ll have you know _I_ was one of the only people in town who ended up being immune to the plague when it hit. How’s that for natural defenses?” His proud demeanor faltered when he remembered how horrific that scourge had been. “Not something to brag about, I’m realizing now.”  
  
Geralt scrutinized him for a moment before instinctively wrapping his arms about himself as a chilly breeze rippled through his bloody, dirty tunic. Through all the other aches, he gradually became aware of a throbbing in his skull.  
  
Realizing belatedly that the other man was too weak to engage in any sort of repartee, Jaskier turned his back to him and crouched down, gesturing emphatically at broad shoulders.  
  
“All right. I’m going to get us out of here. Find you some medicine. Get on.”  
  
A frown. “‘On?’”  
  
“Yes, _on_. My back. I won’t have you toppling over any more ledges today, and this is the only way I can carry you with my wrist blown to smithereens.”  
  
Reluctantly, Geralt passed him the sword and wrapped his arms about his neck. It took a little extra adjusting as he worked around the broken appendage but eventually, Jaskier found a comfortable position for both of them - Geralt’s legs fastened in place by his elbows, arms draped around his chest, face resting on his shoulder.  
  
“And - we’re off!” The bard straightened, nearly tipping to the side beneath the added weight. He managed to keep them both steady after a little more posturing, though, and continued pressing on through the trees. “Say what you will about my body, but it seems it was made to piggyback yours. Look at that fit. Like puzzle pieces.”  
  
Geralt grunted, soft puffs of too-hot breath tickling Jaskier’s ear. Dirt, hardened by the cold, and branches crunched underfoot as they made their way west. The silence was broken only by the bard’s gruff rambling, a valiant attempt at distracting the other from his sickness and the frigid air.  
  
As he stepped over a low-hanging vine, he felt the other man shift and shiver against him.  
  
“Everything okay back there?”  
  
“Never had a fever,” Geralt murmured, making a second small noise in Jaskier’s ear as they passed over another bump, “is your skin supposed to feel like this?”  
  
“Er - like what? _Hot_? Because, yeah, that’s kind of the whole point - ”  
  
“No, not hot.” An awkward pause. “Sensitive. Everything is, uh...”  
  
“What do you - oh. _Ohh_.” Warm, golden eyes widened and he had to force himself to stare straight ahead. Stay the course, even though that last groan had sounded _far_ too sensual, given the circumstances - he cleared his throat before speaking again, though it didn’t do much to quell his nervous babbling. “That’s, uh - that’s _normal_. Y-you - you’re not accustomed to - to illness, so it must be, um, quite...intense?”  
  
In an attempt to escape the torturous sensation, Geralt angled himself so that there was a breath of space between his body and the other’s back before agreeing with a hushed, breathy, “quite.”  
  
Gods. A feverish, over-sensitized Geralt latched onto him like a starfish should _not_ have been that enticing. _Bad_ Jaskier.  
  
It was his turn to lapse into silence, trying not to dwell on the shivering bundle on his back for too long. Whatever piqued interest he suffered was quickly dwarfed by concern when he remembered that there was no certainty for them that night. As per usual, their fate hung in the balance by a single thread. Whether or not that thread snapped or held depended on - what, exactly? Finding a tall tree and felling it with their minds? Sheer _willpower_?  
  
And if Geralt’s fever persisted or, gods forbid, got any worse...he needed warm, soothing fluids, _real_ medicine, and a soft bed with tons of blankets. Hygiene, too, was vitally important. A hot bath. Clean clothes. The jungle provided none of that.  
  
Add to that the overpowered hellion - who might have recovered fully by then - dead set on claiming Geralt’s body as his own; needless to say, the fucked-ness of their situation was becoming clearer to him by the second.  
  
His increasingly agitated thoughts were interrupted by Geralt nearly knocking them both off-balance when he abruptly thrust a hand over Jaskier’s shoulder, pointing insistently at a tree to their left.  
  
“That’s the one.” The hand dropped limply, as if that movement alone was too much for him. “Tall - _ugh_ \- tall enough. Sturdy, too. Won’t snap on impact.”  
  
Jaskier stopped in front of the tree, squinting dubiously as he surveyed it and the canyon. “Well, I hate to burst your bubble, but - silly me - I seem to have forgotten my chopping axe at home.”  
  
“Aard.”  
  
“Right, right. Forgot about that nifty trick.”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt squirmed against his back, making a low, frustrated sound. Like a tiny cat trying to growl as fiercely as its larger relatives. “Are you going to let me down?”  
  
With a soft, nervous chuckle and another “ _right_ ,” the bard complied, lowering himself and gently releasing his hold on Geralt’s legs. He guided him to sit against a tree, noticing the way blue eyes fluttered and eventually squeezed shut against the movement.  
  
“Okay, you beautiful, feverish bastard. Lay it on me.” Jaskier wiggled the fingers of his uninjured hand experimentally. “How do I do this thing?”  
  
Geralt snorted and started forming the sign with his own hand. He did it slowly, making sure Jaskier caught every subtle movement. It was very similar to igni, and burning the only viable tree they’d seen in the last hour was decidedly not a good idea.  
  
Of course the bard, not used to having magically-imbued weapons for hands, started repeating the motions with his open palm aimed directly at Geralt’s head.  
  
Rather than respond with irritation, however, the Witcher scooted forward and, before Jaskier could complete the sign, gently stopped him, redirecting his hand until it was facing the tree.  
  
“Cast it that close and you’ll blow my head off.” Geralt murmured, giving the rough fingers trapped in his own a squeeze before releasing them. When Jaskier went to quickly apologize, looking rightfully terrified at what he had almost done, he firmly shook his head. “Don’t dwell on it. Just focus.”  
  
“O-okay.” Sucking in a shaky breath, Jaskier started again, cursing when nothing happened. “No! _Why_ isn’t it working? It has to, I need to get you to a doctor, to _safety_ , or...or...” Another attempt, another failure. “Son of a whore!”  
  
It took a great deal of effort but Geralt stood on shaky legs, coming up behind him and resting a comforting hand on his shoulder.  
  
“You can’t think about that right now. Clear your mind. There’s only one objective here.” He gestured to the tree. “You’ve got this.”  
  
Wild, gold eyes found his. “I _don’t_ \- ”  
  
“Stop. You can do it, Jaskier. I know you can.”  
  
It was the most patient he had seen Geralt in quite some time. While he had successfully cast yrden less than two hours ago, those instructions had been wordless - even if the other man had been frustrated, had lost his temper, he hadn’t been able to vocalize it.  
  
In that moment, however, Geralt was fully capable of berating him for his repeated failures, but chose not to. He was calm and instructive. Trusting. Perhaps he was too tired to be annoyed, or perhaps he really _did_ believe the bard could do it - either way, the display was heartening. Encouraging.  
  
Using that burst of motivation, Jaskier tried again without tearing his eyes away from the other man’s. Middle finger bent, palm facing outwards, and -  
  
The force of the telekinetic blast staggered him but the hand on his shoulder held him in place. They both watched in awe as the trunk of the tree cracked upon impact, bluish-white energy slicing clean through.  
  
The space around them shook as the tree slammed heavily down onto its own stump to compensate for the portion that had been carved out by the sign. Its groans echoed as it started to fall.  
  
In the _wrong_ direction.  
  
Jaskier shrieked and made to run but Geralt, not flinching or missing a beat, snatched his wrist and held it towards the impending doom looming over them.  
  
“ _Again_.”  
  
A tiny whimper as Jaskier cast the sign once more, aiming higher up on the trunk - thankfully he found success on the first try. The blow snapped a few branches, splitting wood and raining debris down upon them, but did its job and had the tree’s trajectory changing completely.  
  
The monstrosity creaked dangerously, tipping backwards. As it fell, the middle of it caught on the far ledge of the canyon, halting its descent and - _yes_ , successfully creating a crude-looking bridge.  
  
“Oh - oh! I did it?” Jaskier’s jaw had been hanging open as he watched the scene unfold and once it was done, his dumbfounded expression evolved into an ear-to-ear grin as he hopped about excitedly. “I did it! Geralt, I - I can’t believe that _worked_ , honestly, what about physics and - and - ”  
  
He faltered when he turned and saw the look on the other’s face.  
  
Smiling. Impressed. And oh, so _painfully_ tender. Though it was his own face gazing back at him, something about it was so purely Geralt it made his knees wobble, had his heart thumping erratically against his chest as if trying to escape.  
  
“You did.”  
  
Before he could speak again, Geralt closed the space between them and hungrily, somewhat combatively crashed their lips together. Jaskier uttered a soft, surprised “mmf,” eyes remaining wide open for a moment before sliding happily shut as he gave in to the kiss.  
  
Neither man was allowed to enjoy the feel of it as suddenly, the world seemed to fall out from under their feet. Jaskier’s eyes snapped back open before being forced to close again when he found the entire space around them was blanketed by a blinding, white light.  
  
The kiss halted immediately and his hands instinctively clutched the front of Geralt’s shirt, entire body coursing with magical energy, and it _hurt_ , as if it was festering in all of his wounds, trying to rip him apart through every break in his skin, snaking between the shattered bones in his wrist -  
  
When he thought that was it, that he truly might die then and there, the electrical humming that had built up around them was cut off by a loud _snap_ , the white light replaced by impenetrable darkness, and all of his senses fizzled, intensified, and then came to a jarring halt.  
  
Painfully slow, the world came back to him in increments as the thick, heavy darkness subsided. He became aware of the reassuring warmth of two strong arms wrapped about his shoulders, a large hand holding his head tightly to a solid chest.  
  
“Jask...” The voice at his ear cracked as if it hadn’t been used in ages, rough and ragged and raw. “ _Jaskier_?”  
  
The bard made a dejected sound, burying his face into that chest for a moment longer before craning his neck back and blinking blearily up at the face above.  
  
Gold eyes. Stringy, white hair hanging limply, framing rugged features. The usually hard line of its mouth was broken, lips parted in surprise.  
  
Geralt.  
  
“Oh, thank _fuck_. I’ve never been happier to see your lovely mug in all my life.”  
  
They were both still regaining their senses, movements sluggish and uneasy. Neither had the strength to separate just yet.  
  
“Feeling’s mutual.” Fingers tangled themselves in soft, brown hair. “That was worse than the last.”  
  
“ _Much_ worse.” Jaskier agreed, wincing as the residual energy from the switch crackled uncomfortably in the tips of his fingers and toes. “Thought I was dying.”  
  
When he finally felt ready to untangle himself from Geralt’s grasp, however, a wave of dizziness and exhaustion crashed into him, had him swaying dangerously.  
  
“Gods, _this_ is how you’ve been feeling?” Those wonderfully steady arms kept him upright and he had to wait to catch his breath before speaking again. _Everything_ hurt, which had him vaguely missing Geralt’s far more resilient body. “No wonder you were so cranky.”  
  
Geralt snorted, a fond smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. When he was sure Jaskier wouldn’t fall over, he released him, turned his back, and lowered himself in the same way the bard had done for him.  
  
“Get on, you...what was it? ‘Beautiful, feverish bastard?’” Amusement was plain on his face as the bard conjured up a scathing look and a weak “ha, _ha_.” “I smell people. Food. One of the villages has to be nearby.”  
  
“Oh, blessed warmth. Yes, _please_. You know, I will never, _ever_ get over how strange this whole... _situation_ is,” Jaskier sighed and climbed onto Geralt’s back, clinging tightly when the other man stood and started moving, “I mean, we’re sharing _fevers_ , now. It is absolutely _fucking_ with me, Geralt. And will no doubt will make for a very confusing ballad.”  
  
“Might want to keep that one to yourself. Too much for the drunk masses to comprehend.”  
  
“And this means we absolutely _cannot_ argue anymore. Another switch like that will be the end of me, I’m sure of it.” For good measure, he flicked the back of the Witcher’s head - just to make sure he was listening - earning a very half-heartedly irritated grunt. “Got it?”  
  
“Got it,” Geralt repeated, seemingly unable to fend off the contented smile that invaded his features, made his fucking cheeks hurt, “no more arguing.”  
  
With the bard chattering happily - albeit wearily, a little deliriously - in his ear, Geralt dutifully carried them over the makeshift bridge, heading north towards the scent of fresh-baked bread, of clean sheets, of _warmth_.


	67. Chapter 67

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I promise they’ll be leaving the jungle soon, they were supposed to reach Yen aaages ago! Queue the road to el dorado “trail we blaze” montage to get them out next chapter! That movie’s basically about Geralt, Jaskier, and Roach anyway, right??

“ - _When suddenly, a shapeshifting zombie  
  
Cursed him into his lover’s body!  
  
Now the bard must find his way out of this fresh hell,  
  
Whilst smelling every horrible, terrible sme-e-ell_ \- ooh, ooh, Geralt! Geralt, look!”  
  
“I see.”  
  
Overjoyed to have his voice back, Jaskier spent their short journey singing weak, thready tunes in Geralt’s ear about the curse that had ripped them from their quaint, coastal life.  
  
Most of the lyrics focused largely, and very specifically, on bashing the Witcher’s keen senses. They had also been getting increasingly ridiculous - likely due to the fever burning its way through his body - but were abruptly cut off when thick, luscious green fronds parted to reveal a small cabin. Behind it stood the tall gates of a closed-off village.  
  
Jaskier nearly toppled them both with how suddenly he thrust his arm out to point at it, entire body squirming excitedly against Geralt’s back.  
  
It wasn’t until a gangly elbow dug painfully into his spine that the Witcher hissed and came to a halt, tapping Jaskier’s thigh and wordlessly urging him to disembark.  
  
“Lower your voice,” he murmured, helping him down before drawing his sword, “we don’t know what we’re walking into.”  
  
“Right-o - oh, bollocks. Sorry.” Jaskier had said it quite loudly, making the other man wince - he quickly remedied his tone until it was a low (though still too-loud) whisper. “ _Right-o_.”  
  
The gates were unmanned and they passed through without much fanfare, though a few scattered villagers - going about their chores before turning in for the night - stopped and stared.  
  
Sensing no hostility - at worst, he smelled fear, curiosity - Geralt sheathed his sword. The village itself was actually quite large, very well-maintained. Several levels of neat houses, their roofs fashioned out of dried fronds, were built into and around the trees. Crops that would have been lush and vibrant, if it weren’t for the unnatural chill in the air, lined a single dirt road, along with a few non-residential buildings - one, in particular, had a sign outside labeling it the local tavern.  
  
As they trudged wearily towards its warm, inviting exterior, Jaskier noticed the wide eyes of a young girl peering at him from behind her mother’s skirt. He gave a friendly wave, letting his hand hang awkwardly in the air when she burst into tears and hid her face in a dirt-smudged apron.  
  
“Oh. Good. Less than a minute in and I’ve scared a small _child_.” A plump lower lip jutted out in a pout. “Tell me truly, Geralt - do I look that frightening?”  
  
Gold eyes scanned him up and down: Face and blouse stained with blood, dirt, and gods knew what else. Cheeks and forehead flushed nearly as red as the blood. His hair - which Geralt took partial responsibility for - was wild, matted by more dirt, and sticking out every which way. There were more than a few leaves trapped in those curling brown locks.  
  
“Truly?”  
  
Jaskier considered that for a moment, before shaking his head with a dejected sigh. “ _No_. Lie to me, Geralt. Lie right to my face with that delectable mouth of yours and tell me I’m pretty.”  
  
“You’re pretty.” That earned him a delirious giggle, as if the bard hadn’t actually expected him to say it. “Come on, let’s find you a healer. Think that fever’s killing more than a few brain cells.”  
  
“Wait, waitwait - now tell me I’m the _prettiest_ girl at the ball.”  
  
“No.” He opened the door to the tavern, giving Jaskier’s backside a light smack when he lingered too long in the threshold, waiting for his requested compliment. ”Tightest arse at the ball, though.”  
  
With a cheeky grin, Jaskier swiveled on his heel and made to show it off by casually sauntering in, but the effect was ruined when he walked directly into one of the door’s side panels, bashing his nose.  
  
“Shit on a _stick_!”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, shepherding his poor, befuddled bard into the inn. As soon as they entered they were immediately bathed in the comforting warmth of a large, crackling hearth seated at the center of the main room. There was a kettle fixed directly above the fire, a few smoked fish on sticks in the coals that had Jaskier’s mouth watering.  
  
An old, leathered man was wiping down the counter. When he saw them, his deeply tanned face - wrinkled and pleasant, with warm, dark eyes - broke out into a friendly smile.  
  
“Hello, travelers.”  
  
Excited to see a face that didn’t belong to one of two bloodthirsty twins _and_ wasn’t prone to unpredictable bouts of _shifting_ , Jaskier bounced over to the counter, greeting him with a little too much enthusiasm.  
  
Geralt peered around the large room. “This an inn, too?”  
  
“Of sorts.” The old man abandoned his cloth, resting his elbows on the counter. His accent was vague, though it didn’t match the thicker intonations they had come to expect from that area. “Not many pass through here, but I try to accommodate those that do. When I’m not, this place serves as a nice watering hole for the locals.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
“You two look like hell.” He seemed to be speaking of Jaskier in particular, whose bleary eyes were consistently drawn to the fire. “Just heated some water for my tea. Can I interest you in a hot beverage?”  
  
“Oh, _yes_ please. Hot beverage, hot meal, hot bath, hot _bed_ \- ”  
  
“Uh,” Geralt rested a hand on Jaskier’s shoulder, drawing him a few inches away from where he was practically breathing down the man’s neck, “we’ll start with the beverage.”  
  
The innkeeper quirked a brow but nodded, pouring some water from the kettle into a mug, plopping in a neat bundle of herbs, and passing it off to the bard. That brow remained raised as Jaskier unhooked the flask from his belt and added a healthy shot of dark liquor.  
  
When he noticed both men staring at him, he snapped the flask closed. “What? Never heard of a hot toddy?”  
  
“Can’t say I have.” A good-natured chuckle. “So that’ll be two rooms, then?”  
  
“One.” Geralt smoothly corrected, smirking when he heard Jaskier splutter and nearly choke on his spiked tea.  
  
Their new host’s charming demeanor changed instantly, eyes narrowing as he glanced between them. Obvious hostility. “You together?”  
  
“ _Forever_.” Jaskier replied dreamily - at the same time, Geralt leaned over the counter and bared his teeth, hissing, “Got a fucking problem?”  
  
“No problem here. Just making sure you’re not taking advantage.” As he spoke, he jerked his head at the bard, who - having quickly lost interest in the conversation - started drifting towards the hearth, muttering something about soup. “Seems a bit out of it.”  
  
“Oh. Right.” The powerful flare of anger evaporated as suddenly as it had come. Geralt’s mouth snapped shut as he snatched the back of Jaskier’s shirt, fixing him in place because his idle talk of soup had turned into idle talk of how pretty the fire was. Best not add a burn to their staggering list of ailments. “It’s a fever. Don’t suppose there’s a healer around? He could use some medicine.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Best you’ll find in these parts.” He passed a set of room keys to Geralt, taking the coin purse offered in return. “Afraid she’s asleep, though. I’ll bring you to her in the morning. Guess you’ll be wanting that hot meal and hot bath now, as well? Kitchen’s closed, but there’s stew left over. Got a stream out back, we’ve set it up to combat this unnatural weather - ”  
  
“The morning? Do you fucking see the state he’s in?”  
  
For good measure, he used the hand still fisted in the back of Jaskier’s blouse to give him a little shake, evoking a garbled “fuck off, Geralt.”  
  
“I do, but she’s the village elder. Pushing her nineties, frail as can be. Doesn’t do those late-night calls anymore, unless it’s an absolute emergency.”  
  
Jaskier, sobered by the raised voices and Geralt’s infernal shaking, anticipated that the Witcher would grudgingly relent. While their injuries weren’t pleasant, they were by no means life-threatening - a fever could be handled with a lukewarm bath, fluids, and sleep. They had enough supplies left in their pack to treat the rest.  
  
Suffice to say, he and the innkeeper both jumped in surprise when the large palm attached to Geralt’s broken wrist slammed onto the counter, followed by a low snarl as he leaned in even closer than he had before - the old man instinctively drew back, clearly disconcerted by the sudden change in attitude.  
  
“Go. Get. Her.”  
  
“Can’t do it. You’ll have to wait ‘til morning.”  
  
Another slam, wood groaning beneath - Jaskier yelped, snatching Geralt’s injured hand in an attempt to save it from the wrath of its owner. He was easily shaken off.  
  
“I’m not asking.”  
  
“Oi - Geralt, you tit - this is _absurd_.” Stubbornly, the bard escaped from the hand still clutching his blouse. “The man says she’s asleep, and - and what, _ninety_? I can certainly wait until morning. There’s no _need_ for all this, and I’d rather not harass an old woman just to have her whip up a simple concoction.”  
  
“Think you should listen to your little friend.” The innkeeper crossed his arms over his chest. “I can easily deny you both service and turn you out, if that’s how you want it to be.”  
  
Geralt leered at him, free hand reaching for the hilt of his blade. “I’d like to see you try.”  
  
“Okay, o-o-o-kay. _What_ has gotten into you, Geralt? Why are you being such a twat?”  
  
Jaskier tried edging his way between them again. He didn’t like the unbridled rage he was hearing in Geralt’s voice, the way he was practically foaming at the mouth over something like _this_. It took far more than a stubborn human to push Geralt to such extremes, even on his worst, _grumpiest_ days, and -  
  
His train of thought was interrupted as the Witcher let out a low growl, irritation furthered by the interruption, before unceremoniously, bodily shoving him out of the way.  
  
The bard teetered, arms flailing to grab onto something - because Geralt had used _far_ more force than necessary - but he found no purchase, missing the counter by less than an inch. With a stifled cry, he crashed heavily to the floor, the top of his head smacking painfully against the stone edge of the hearth.  
  
Geralt froze, arm still outstretched from where it had pushed Jaskier. Gold eyes glanced down at the offending limb with a mixture of confusion and shock. At the same time, the innkeeper hurried out from behind the counter, kneeling beside the fallen bard.  
  
“Young man, are you all right?”  
  
Jaskier winced, pushing himself up off the wood floor into a sitting position with some help. A trembling hand reached up to probe experimentally at his throbbing head, fingers drawing back to reveal a small smear of blood.  
  
“Y-yeah. Just - fine. It’s only a scratch.”  
  
As if someone had taken a straw, stuck it in his head, and sucked all the anger from his body, Geralt came back to himself and took a cautious step towards them. The guilt in his eyes made the bard’s gut twist uncomfortably.  
  
“Jaskier, I’m sorry, I - ”  
  
Ignoring the hand offered to him, Jaskier politely thanked the innkeeper before getting to his feet, composing himself impressively fast.  
  
“Never mind all that, Geralt. We’re both exhausted.” A forced smile, though the confusion and hurt lingering behind weary blue eyes was starkly apparent. “Are we done here? Because if I don’t bathe and eat soon, I _will_ pass out. Either from the smell or sheer exhaustion. Can’t really say.”  
  
The Witcher, still reeling, couldn’t bring himself to respond, but their host nodded and produced a bundle of linens from a cabinet behind the counter, passing them to Jaskier.  
  
He cast a wary glance at Geralt before turning back to the bard, offering a small, worried smile. While he _had_ just been threatening to kick them out, it seemed the altercation had garnered his sympathy - sympathy for Jaskier, at least.  
  
“I’ll warm the stew, see if I can’t find some bread. And while they won’t be as quality as a healer’s brew, I’ve got a few extra potions lying around that might get you started on healing.” He jerked his head towards the back door. “Now, get yourselves cleaned up. Food’ll be ready shortly.” 

♜ ♖

The bathing spot out back had been sorely misrepresented. There was a beautiful, running stream, around which a stone fixture had been built. Inside, it was furnished with benches, torches, and steaming rocks to warm against the bitter chill. There was even a little spot carved out in the wall that allowed the water to flow in and out freely.  
  
With the innkeeper’s novice potions working their way through his system, already soothing weary, aching bones - and blessing him with clear-headedness, as his fever slowly ebbed away - Jaskier shed his clothes and dipped a toe in the stream, shrieking and backtracking a few steps just as soon as his skin made contact with frigid water.  
  
The two men had fallen into an uncomfortable silence, Geralt’s jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt, but the sudden sound had the Witcher wordlessly kneeling before the water, sticking a hand in to warm it with one of his signs.  
  
“Ah,” the bard slipped in, letting out a happy, breathy sigh, “thank you, Geralt.”  
  
“Jaskier, I - ”  
  
“If you’re going to apologize again, don’t. I’ve already decided to accept the first.” After dipping his head under the water, Jaskier resurfaced and shook his hair out, blue eyes sliding over to the other man. “How’s your wrist?”  
  
With a frown and a sigh, Geralt peeled off his soiled clothes and got in beside the bard, lifting the appendage out of the water with a soft _splick_. Still fractured, bruises branching up the meat of his palm and the underbelly of his wrist. At the rate he was going, it would take days to heal.  
  
The cool outside air, occasionally breaking through the steam blanketing the enclosure, made it throb. “Fine.”  
  
Slender fingers came up to hover cautiously over the wound. After a moment, Jaskier turned to him, eyes filled with concern.  
  
“What happened to you back there?”  
  
“I don’t know. I was angry.” Geralt looked off to the side, as confused about the outburst as Jaskier. He hadn’t felt like himself. Had seen red, and little else. “Too angry.”  
  
“ _That_ much was clear. Why, though? It’s not like you to get so worked up over something so - so trivial.”  
  
“It wasn’t trivial, Jaskier. You needed medicine and he...” Anger had started creeping back into his tone and when he realized he had clenched his bruised hand into a fist, he paused and scowled, letting it drop back into the water. “You’re right. Don’t know what the fuck came over me. I didn’t mean...didn’t - ”  
  
Jaskier abruptly squeezed his palms together above the water, causing a stream of it to shoot out and spray the other man’s face.  
  
“Will you stop that? I know you would never intentionally hurt me, Geralt.”  
  
A grimace. “How’s your head?”  
  
“Tip-top shape. Now,” as he spoke, Jaskier popped out of the water long enough to snatch a clay pot and a scrub brush, “what say we wash this horrid, awful, _dreadful_ day off?”  
  
Eventually, after cleaning out and treating each other’s injuries, they put on the robes provided by the innkeeper and sat on one of the stone benches. Steam rolled thickly around them, filling the small space and turning it into a warm, moist, dimly-lit cloud.  
  
At some point, their host dropped off two bowls of stew with a healthy serving of bread on the side. He instructed them to put out the fire beneath the stones before they turned in, and even placed a pile of clothes on the bench beside them. Ridiculously good service, in Jaskier’s opinion. The inns back home could learn a thing or two.  
  
“So, why didn’t we switch back, Geralt?” Jaskier piped up after they had eaten, leaning his head back against the wall.  
  
“What do you mean?”  
  
“You know, when you - not to reopen the wound so soon, but when you _pushed_ me. We touched - in _anger_ , no less - but nothing happened.”  
  
“Hm.” Geralt angled his body until he was facing the bard, causing his robe to slide open, revealing a chest that glistened with little droplets of condensation. “Not sure. Guess it didn’t count as an argument.”  
  
“Bloody confusing curse.” Jaskier swallowed through a lump in his throat, vivid blue eyes falling on the newly-bared skin before him. “Suppose we should limit our... _physical contact_ until we figure all this out.”  
  
Following his gaze, the Witcher cracked a smile for the first time since the shoving incident. “Suppose we should.”  
  
“On the _other_ hand, we’re finally back in our bodies and...well, mostly naked.”  
  
Geralt’s eyes raked over the deliciously pink, freshly-scrubbed skin visible through Jaskier’s slightly parted robe. “There’s that, too.”  
  
“As long as we don’t get into any arguments, it should be fine...right?”  
  
A very gruff, very throaty, “Right.”  
  
“Are - are we doing this?”  
  
“Think so.”  
  
Both had been speaking distractedly, not really listening or thinking too much about what they were saying - hard to, while simultaneously undressing each other with their eyes. Before they knew it, they were standing, lips locked in a hungry, passionate kiss.  
  
Jaskier matched every one of Geralt’s steps as he drew closer until eventually, his back bumped into the wall. Calloused hands started roaming his body before aggressively yanking the robe over his shoulders. One wandered down to his leg, lifting and hooking it about a firm waist - he let out a soft groan when Geralt buried his nose in his neck, inhaling deeply and growling before peppering hungry kisses on his ear, his jaw, his collarbone.  
  
Suddenly, a soft _crunch_ tore Jaskier from his steamy, lusty haze. While Geralt’s mouth moved, hot and heavy, nibbling at all his favorite spots, he peered down to see what was making the sound - wondering if they had perhaps broken a pot or something in the heat of the moment.  
  
The sight of what it really was flooded him with panic.  
  
Geralt’s hand, the one gripping his thigh hard enough to bruise, the one keeping it fixed around his hip - his _broken_ hand, attached to the nasty fracture in his wrist. Purple, swollen, angry. He realized belatedly that there had been _hands_ roaming about his body. Plural, not singular.  
  
Jaskier’s fluttery little mewl of pleasure evolved into a muffled “ _wha_ \- ?” as rough fingers curled tighter into the soft skin of his thigh - the pressure Geralt was applying brought about another sickening _crunch_ as the shattered bones in his wrist cracked and shifted. He was hurting himself - hurting himself _again_ -  
  
“Wait, what are you - ”  
  
With an impatient growl, the Witcher’s strong hands forcefully spread Jaskier’s legs farther apart, grinding against him in the space he created. Their robes had long since fallen completely open and the wonderfully direct, skin-on-skin contact had both men moaning, but Jaskier managed to, very reluctantly, break free. He practically twirled out of the other’s grip, scampering a few paces back until he was on the far side of the enclosure.  
  
“What the fuck, Jaskier?”  
  
“This isn’t right. I don’t know what’s going on, maybe it’s all this switching, you’re - you’re not acting like _you_.”  
  
“What?” Eyes dark with want, Geralt stalked forward but Jaskier snatched the scrub brush, brandishing it like a sword. “Stop being ridiculous and come here.”  
  
“No, _no_. Back, you.” The bard wiggled the brush menacingly when he took another step. “This has to be some sort of side effect. You’re picking fights for no reason, shoving _me_ to the ground - ”  
  
“What does that have to do with - ”  
  
“ - even agreeing to have sex in the first place and risk switching back, I realize, is an _impulse_ decision that is very not like you, and - ”  
  
“ - _Jaskier_ \- ”  
  
“Look at your fucking wrist, Geralt!”  
  
For the first time, the Witcher glanced down at it. He paused, the fingers of his good hand coming up to experimentally probe at the mottled skin and broken bones.  
  
“Oh.”  
  
“Look, it’s okay. It’s okay. I just - I think I was right before.” Yes, it did take every ounce of willpower in him to say what he said next. “We have to limit our touching.”  
  
“Our...wait.” Geralt trailed off, hands moving from his wrist, to his chest, then his face in alarm. “What is this? I’m - I’m fucking sweating, Jaskier. Look at this.” He gestured to himself - yes, positively coated in the stuff - and the bard thought, whilst silently cursing the gods, _already am, thanks_. “And all I can think about is bending you over that bench and fucking you sense - ”  
  
“Ah! Aha... _ha_.” Jaskier quickly shoved his robe closed when he saw Geralt’s eyes still greedily drinking in the physical evidence of his arousal. “We - er, we don’t need revisit the specifics right now. I don’t know where it came from, but there is some _very_ annoying, nagging voice in my head telling me it’s in our best interest to stop, because...Geralt?”  
  
Given the Witcher’s suddenly erratic behavior, Jaskier didn’t know what reaction he was expecting. He _certainly_ didn’t expect the hulking figure standing before him to self-consciously hunch its broad shoulders and bow its silver head.  
  
After a tense, confusing couple of moments Geralt looked back up and no, Jaskier also did _not_ expect to see tears swimming in those gold eyes, glistening in the dim torchlight.  
  
With a whimper, Jaskier turned his head to the side so the other man couldn’t see as he mouthed, to no one in particular, “ _what is happening_?”  
  
The Witcher scowled, trying to blink back the incursion, the sudden blur that had the vision of Jaskier standing before him doubling, but that just had the tears spilling over. A brawny arm finally came up to swipe them away but it seemed a dam had broken and, regardless of his best efforts, they continued falling.  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
It took a moment for Jaskier to get his bearings because he had never seen his lover cry. Well, maybe once during that out-of-body experience he had while _dying_ but certainly not like this, out of the blue and seemingly for no reason at all.  
  
“Yes, Geralt?”  
  
“What the fuck is happening?”  
  
Feeling far more level-headed than he had perhaps in his whole life, Jaskier released a tittering, nervous laugh. “You know, I was _just_ asking myself that very same question.” 


	68. Chapter 68

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delays, I’ve been studying for my japanese oral exam :( but it’s also my last exam :) so here’s a hefty double update to make it better!!!!
> 
> Also, my roommate and I collect ridiculous variations of those live laugh love home signs as a running joke and at some point in this chap Jaskier quotes one that I was glaring at while writing so I’m REALLY sorry for that lmfao

After the initial shock subsided, Jaskier reacted as he normally would when a person he cared for deeply burst into tears in front of him. Without much thought, he abandoned his bristly, makeshift weapon and closed the space between them, wrapping his arms about Geralt’s hulking frame in a warm, comforting embrace.  
  
He felt the other man’s shoulders tense for a moment before eventually relaxing into the hug, one arm snaking around his waist and drawing him closer. A nose buried in his neck, the warm wetness that tickled the sensitive patch of skin there letting him know the tears, despite Geralt’s best efforts, were still falling.  
  
It was strange. Probably the least he had ever felt anyone move while crying. No shoulder shakes, no quiet sobs, no wavering inhalations. Just silence, dampness, the occasional puff of hot breath filling the little divot of his collarbone.  
  
They remained like that until the Witcher, voice a muffled, hoarse croak, murmured his name in the form of a question.  
  
“Yes, Geralt?”  
  
“How long are we going to stand here?”  
  
The bard hummed thoughtfully. “Depends. Is it helping?”  
  
A pause that, when Geralt realized the tightness in his chest had been replaced by soft, soothing warmth, was followed up with a slightly resentful, “Yes.”  
  
“A bit longer, then.”  
  
“Hm.” He felt Geralt’s mouth curve into a frown. “Has to be this fucking curse.”  
  
“It does seem that way, doesn’t it? My working theory is that you’ve been spending too much time in my body.” Jaskier’s tone turned a bit sly, drawing back to offer the other man a cheeky wink. “You know - the body of an _artiste_? One who lives passionately, loves freely, laughs loudly - or is it loves passionately, _lives_ freely? Bollocks - ”  
  
At that, Geralt _groaned_ loudly, shaking his head while the bard carefully picked through the phrase as though it was a complex mathematical equation. “Why do I put up with you?”  
  
“ - I can love _or_ live passionately, but I can just as well do both freely...I can love _loudly_ , too, as we both well kno - huh? _Why_? Because I’m adorable, Geralt. And look, you’ve already stopped crying.”  
  
Gold eyes blinked several times, widening when he realized that infuriating blur had gone. He could see Jaskier’s face clearly now, hovering but an inch or two below his own. Terribly tender, a cool hand coming up to cup his cheek, the pad of a slender thumb stroking at drying tear tracks.  
  
With a satisfied little huff and a sunny smile, Jaskier broke the embrace.  
  
“Better?”  
  
“Mm.” Geralt had to look away, the other’s radiant glow blinding him as his eyes adjusted to the unfamiliar sensitivity that usually followed a good cry. “Thanks.”  
  
“Ah, don’t you mention it. I know this is all a symptom, but it’s _okay_ to get overwhelmed sometimes, as long as you - ”  
  
“Not in my line of work.”  
  
It was Jaskier’s turn to groan. “That’s all well and good, but when you’ve been moonlighting as a bard who loves and lives as passionately and freely as - ”  
  
“Once more and I’ll toss you in the stream.”  
  
“Will you let me _finish_? Gods. The point is, _Geralt_ \- rather than resist them all, you’ve got to focus on one emotion at a time. Compartmentalize.” A pause when he remembered just who he was speaking to. “In a _healthy_ manner. If you’re feeling sad, if you’re feeling _angry_ \- ”  
  
“Right now I’m feeling uncomfortable.”  
  
“Well, that’s - that’s _norm_ \- ”  
  
“ _You’re_ making me uncomfortable.”  
  
The bard had shuffled over to retrieve their pack, rummaging through it as he spoke. When he heard that he puffed out his cheeks indignantly before releasing the breath and reluctantly relenting.  
  
“All right, all right. I’ll stop...for _now_. Got to wrap that ghastly wrist of yours, anyway. I’ll just fashion a splint, easy peasy, and - oh, good _gods_ , Geralt!”  
  
His eyes bulged when they settled on the appendage. It had swelled so rapidly that it no longer resembled a wrist at all, more a lumpy, fleshy bag of blood and cartilage than anything. The skin, mottled and nearly black, shifted bonelessly with each subtle movement, making Jaskier gag noisily.  
  
“Calm down.” Despite his very recent outburst, Geralt managed to look impressively indifferent. “Looks worse than it is.”  
  
“Well, it _looks_ like someone’s taken their frustrations out on it with a meat tenderizer, so that’s hardly a comfort.”  
  
Unable to hold back another horrified gagging sound, Jaskier took the Witcher’s elbow and plopped him down on one of the benches.  
  
As he perched beside him and went to work wrapping the injury in thick, sturdy cloth, Geralt’s calm demeanor was yet again swept away by another powerful emotion.  
  
All that heady steam swirling around them, pretty much everything _about_ Jaskier: the fading scent of his arousal from their previous activities, the furrowed brow and slightly-parted pink lips that were occasionally moistened by an equally pink tongue, the slit of his robe widening with each subtle movement to reveal precious inches of soft, supple skin -  
  
It was all too much, and a deep noise of protest suddenly ripped free from the back of Geralt’s throat.  
  
Blue eyes instantly flicked up to him in concern, nimble hands stilling from where they had been adjusting the splint. “Did I hurt you?”  
  
“No. I, uh...”  
  
They followed his gaze down south, widening considerably. “ _Again_? You’ve only just finished crying, Geralt. What did I tell you? One emotion at a time. Though, I used to lay with a woman who would get so overwhelmed that she cried, without fail, whenever she had an - ”  
  
“Please don’t finish that sentence, Jaskier.”  
  
“ - orgasm. What?”  
  
Geralt knew the sultry rasp of the bard’s voice was just a symptom of his exhaustion, but that didn’t make it any less tantalizing.  
  
Through gritted teeth, he managed, “Stop. Talking. About sex.”  
  
Jaskier tied off the bandage and drew back. “If you insist. I think this curse has already left us well-fucked, anyway, don’t you?” A teasing glance back down. “Or not.”  
  
“It’s not funny, Jaskier. I’m fucking unraveling. Can’t think straight. Can’t keep us safe like this.” He threw his head back against the wall with a painful-sounding _thunk_. “ _Fuck_.”  
  
Amusement quickly turned to sympathy and the bard stood, offering a hand and tilting his head to the side with what he hoped to be a reassuring smile.  
  
“ _That_ is a bridge we will cross when and if we come to it. For now, I think we should turn in. I’m so tired I’ve started to hallucinate.” Blue eyes squinted uncertainly at his outstretched limb. “Unless there really _is_ a tiny manticore crawling up my arm.”  
  
Geralt snorted, pushing aside his frustration and accepting the hand. “No tiny manticore.” Took the pack from Jaskier, started steering him towards the door. “Come on. Let’s get you to bed.”  
  
Their room was in the attic and simply furnished, complete with a large mattress by the window, a chair, and a small table in the corner. It seemed the innkeeper had locked the place up and gone to sleep himself.  
  
Jaskier was sitting on the bed, cross-legged and wearing the fresh pair of breeches that had been offered by their host. He scowled at his ruined clothes as he went through them, making sure he didn’t leave behind anything important.  
  
Geralt, who had immediately shed his robe and gotten into bed, was absentmindedly rubbing soothing circles on the small of his back. The whirlwind of emotions had left them both drained, so much so that his seemingly incorrigible lust had waned, leaving him with the powerful need to hold the bard close while they drifted off.  
  
In an attempt to keep the borderline desperate edge from his voice, Geralt put on a surly tone. “Will you come to bed already?”  
  
“In a moment. If we’re leaving first thing, I need to make sure I’ve got all my effects.”  
  
“By effects you mean your flask and a single lock pick?”  
  
“ _Precisely_.”  
  
Jaskier gnawed on his lower lip, hand diving deep into the back pocket of his tattered, bloodied, grime-coated pants. Sad to see them go, but the stains and tears they had gathered over the last day and a half left them beyond repair.  
  
Suddenly, as he was about to toss them to the other side of the room, his fingers brushed against a small, cool, round object at the very bottom. He frowned and pulled it out, gasping when he realized what it was.  
  
“What happened?” Geralt sat up at the soft sound, blankets slipping from where they had been draped across his bare chest. When he was met with silence, he added, “Jaskier?”  
  
After a moment, the bard turned to him with a devilish little grin, fingers clasped protectively around something.  
  
“While I originally planned to cheer you up with the dulcet tones of my singing voice tonight, maybe this will better serve. Just something I found lying around...at the bottom of the ocean...while fending off a massive squid. A lot of work went into retrieving it, actually. Poor Ciri had to pry the beast off, we might have nearly been _eaten_ , and - look, I’ve still got the pucker marks here, and here, and - ”  
  
Geralt groaned, a hand coming up to massage his temples. He knew the bard’s nervous rambling - and how long it could drag on - all too well.  
  
“Just show me, Jaskier.”  
  
With a dramatic flourish, Jaskier unclenched his fingers to reveal the small bauble balanced on the center of his palm. “Ta da!”  
  
The scant light from the single candle burning at the far corner of their room had the surface of the tiny black pearl gleaming with metallic shades of yellow, green and blue. Geralt’s large fingers came up to pluck it from Jaskier’s hand, eyes fixated on the object.  
  
“A pearl?”  
  
“A pearl.” Jaskier affirmed, looking a little anxious - with Geralt’s emotions on the fritz, he didn’t know what reaction to expect. “I was looking for a white one - you know, for my _White Wolf_ \- but then I found _this_ beauty and, well...did I mention the giant squid?”  
  
Geralt had been silently staring at the pearl, but after a few minutes - through which Jaskier held his breath - curled his fingers around it and looked up with an almost nauseating amount of adoration.  
  
“I love it.” He couldn’t help but smile as the bard released the breath, shoulders sagging in relief. “The squid, not so much. Did you say Ciri was - ”  
  
“Ah- _ha_!” Jaskier abruptly, purposefully cut him off with a forced, ridiculously high-pitched laugh. “Er - best not ruin a perfect moment by dwelling on the past, Geralt. We can argue about it _after_ our curse is lifted.”  
  
An amused snort as the Witcher placed the pearl on the windowsill so he wouldn’t forget to put it safely in his pocket when he was dressed. With that done, he growled a low “come here” before grabbing Jaskier and dragging him down into the bed. This earned him a surprised yelp, followed by a genuine laugh, as the bard toppled gracelessly into his chest.  
  
“Geralt, you bastard, quit manhandling me - we’re not supposed to _touch_!”  
  
“Don’t care.”  
  
The laughter continued as strong arms easily fixed their arrangement until they were lying next to each other. It died down to soft, happy sounds as Jaskier nestled his head in the spot between a firm pec and a firmer bicep.

♜ ♖

True to form, they left the village bright and early the following morning. Not before replenishing their supplies, visiting the frail, old healer, and thanking their host several times for his hospitality - when all that was done they high-tailed it out of there, not keen on crossing paths with Vrart or any of his masked companions again.  
  
The start of their journey went off without a hitch. With the help of stronger potions and poultices, Geralt’s wrist had nearly made a full recovery and Jaskier’s fever was a thing of the past.  
  
Needless to say, their spirits were high. It was only a short trip to get out of the jungle, and they had one last bridge to cross before reaching the mountainous high road. From there, they would make it to Yen’s in two days - less, if they moved quickly and limited their resting time.  
  
Jaskier was idly strumming his lute at Geralt’s side when, in the early afternoon, they finally came upon the third bridge. It was suspended by a series of ropes, creaking in the wind. Below, another canyon with an even steeper drop than the last.  
  
A hand on the bard’s shoulder slowed him to a stop.  
  
“Stay back.” Geralt murmured, narrowed eyes scanning the path before the structure. Something felt off, had him drawing his sword. “Too quiet.”  
  
Suddenly, he caught wind of a very _human_ scent lingering beneath the smell of dirt and leaves and something rotten that he had assumed to be emanating from the corpse of an animal.  
  
He barely managed to tackle Jaskier to the ground in time as a spear rocketed towards them. From every side, from the trees and underbrush, masked figures poured out onto the dirt path, quickly surrounding them. They were sporting the hides and blood of slaughtered animals which, Geralt realized, had been to throw off his sense of smell.  
  
“Shit. Jaskier, run - ”  
  
As the bard made to do just that, scrambling out from Geralt’s grip, an arrow flew by and embedded itself deeply into the ground at his feet. He yelped and scampered back, bumping into the Witcher’s chest.  
  
“Tsk, tsk.” One of the group, voice lilting and playful, spoke to them from where she was perched on the branch of a tree. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”  
  
“Oh, fuck.” Jaskier counted ten - no, _more_ \- enemies. He lowered his voice to a whisper. “Geralt, what’s the _plan_?”  
  
When he received no answer, he turned and saw the Witcher’s eyes were wide, hand gripping the hilt of his blade with uncharacteristic uncertainty.  
  
“Geralt? Geralt - _say_ something!”  
  
“Now, let’s try this again, shall we?” The woman who had first spoken nodded to those below, who were slowly closing the circle. “ _Kill_ the little one.” Her mask shifted and stretched above a cruel smirk when she saw Geralt’s tense shoulders, his wild eyes. “And truss that scaredy cat up nice and tight.”  
  
With that, the clearing exploded into activity as everyone went to arms. Cursing very loudly, Jaskier snatched the sword from Geralt’s hands, immediately - if not a bit clumsily - blocking a blow that had been aiming for his frozen lover’s legs.  
  
The reverberations it sent up his sword arm _hurt_ but he didn’t have time to think about it - more came and he cursed again, yanking a stupefied Geralt along by his sleeve.  
  
Unfortunately, his training sessions hadn’t prepared him for a battle against truly bloodthirsty opponents. One man charged at him, preparing to slice his sword-wielding hand clean off.  
  
Jaskier managed to catch the blade with his own but the pain it sent shooting up his arm had him crying out and staggering back.  
  
Numbers quickly overwhelmed him - he couldn’t see that, from behind, a mace was swinging towards him with the intention of clobbering him in the head.  
  
Thankfully, Geralt was able to rouse himself from his stupor in the nick of time. Before it could hit home, he grabbed the arm wielding it and tossed its owner over his shoulder, where he teetered dangerously before careening over the edge with a shout.  
  
The close call had Jaskier shrieking - he dodged another blade, the piercing _clang_ of steel ringing in his ears and sending tremors throughout his body as he just barely managed to parry the follow-up blow.  
  
“How did _I_ end up with the sword, Geralt? I’m a neophyte, a _novice_ , I can’t - _ack!_ ”  
  
There were far too many, but when the Witcher saw a clear path to the bridge, an idea came to him. He delivered a cracking punch to one man’s skull, before growling, “Pass it here!”  
  
“ _Happily_!”  
  
The sword sailed overhead and Geralt caught it by the hilt with ostentatious ease. He sliced at the legs of the man who had been fielding them away from each other before kicking him aside. He snatched the collar of Jaskier’s shirt, dragging him out of the way of a swinging blade and towards the bridge.  
  
“You go on ahead.” He shoved the bard in back of him, urging him to cross. “I’m going to cut the ropes.”  
  
“You _what_?”  
  
“Just - do as I fucking _say_ , Jaskier!”  
  
“Bloody hell - okay, _okay_!”  
  
With Geralt hacking and slashing at anyone who came close, Jaskier hurried across the bridge. It jolted ominously and he held on for dear life as, at the other end, the Witcher sliced through the first rope tethering it to the poles before turning and putting space between himself and their foes.  
  
Geralt continued making clean, purposeful cuts as he made his way after Jaskier - not all of the ropes, only enough to (at least, according to his calculations) topple the thing _and_ buy them enough time to cross.  
  
“Cut the ropes, he says,” Jaskier muttered resentfully as he picked his way along, nausea roiling in his gut every time he chanced a glance over the edge, “just like that, as if it’s not at all a fucking _terrible_ plan that will no doubt end in us falling to our _deaths_ \- ”  
  
From where he was beating back another opponent, several feet away, Geralt roared, “I can fucking hear you!”  
  
“ _Good_!” Another shriek as the bridge groaned dangerously - a rope that Geralt hadn’t cut snapped beneath its weight at the far end and had a few of the enemies pouring onto it backtracking. “I want you to know that I _hate_ your stupid plan!”  
  
“Get your arse across the bridge, or so help me - ”  
  
Whatever he was about to say was cut off by another enemy. Jaskier cursed and griped the whole way until, suddenly, he realized the ground was blessedly solid, no longer lurching violently from side to side like a carriage ride gone wrong.  
  
He had made it to the other side.  
  
A sigh of relief that caught in his throat when he turned and saw Geralt was still only halfway across. The bridge was bucking erratically, knocking off a few poor souls who didn’t have the wherewithal to grab on to the sides that remained.  
  
“Geralt, quit fucking around and _hurry_!”  
  
Having cut his way through most of the structure’s vital points, it was time to allow gravity to do the rest. Geralt turned and made to sprint to safety when a soft _plink_ at his feet changed everything.  
  
Ignoring Jaskier’s shouts, he swirled on his heel in time to see the pearl rolling and bouncing along wood slats until getting caught in a small hole at the center of one a few paces away.  
  
The weight of those thundering across - who had quickly turned to retreat when they realized what Geralt was doing - had the bridge swaying and swerving in the air but he had, apparently, already made his decision.  
  
“No - no you _don’t_ \- you impulsive prick!” Jaskier gripped one of the ropes still holding the bridge on his side as if that might hold it in place, hissing when it twisted and burned his palm. “Get back here!”  
  
It was no use. Geralt was clearly experiencing one of those charming episodes where he acted first and thought later, reason be damned.  
  
_Got to get him off the bridge_ , Jaskier thought frantically - the sound of wood snapping and splintering had him mentally adding, _got to get him off the bridge_ immediately.  
  
With the pearl tucked safely away in his pocket, Geralt realized he was now stranded at the center of a collapsing structure and the impulse that had gotten him there vanished, leaving behind the unfamiliar “oh, fuck” moment that usually came directly after a rash, unwise decision.  
  
Shit. He ran for it - could no longer see Jaskier on the other edge but could smell him...he was close, but that wasn’t possible, the bridge was falling out beneath his feet -  
  
Suddenly, he heard terrified, panicked screaming from somewhere to his right, echoing off the canyon walls. Jaskier’s screaming. Moving very fast, sounding vaguely like a garbled “ _grab on_!” and a much less intelligible “ _fucking he-ahh-ll_!”  
  
All at once, before he had even fully turned around, the world started to fall out from under his feet and the tail end of something thick and solid smacked him in the face.  
  
At the same time, utilizing a perilously narrow window, an arm reached out to him - his Witcher instincts alone compelled him to grab its hand just before the bridge dropped out beneath him and plummeted to the bottom of the canyon.  
  
Now dangling in midair, surroundings a complete blur, he cringed sympathetically when the limb attached to that hand locked beneath his weight, followed by the soft _pop_ of a shoulder sliding out of its socket.  
  
“ _Aah_! - Geralt - grab the _vine_ , you absolute knob - you’ll rip my arm clean _off_ \- ”  
  
The rest of Jaskier’s words were lost to the wind whipping up around them, trying to suck them down into the abyss - forced to use his healing hand yet again, Geralt was able to release the bard’s arm and secure his hold on the vine.  
  
They swung in a large arc to the side of the canyon where their masked attackers were waiting with their weapons drawn. Jaskier’s screams only stopped long enough for him to suck in large, gasping breaths and shout that he was going to be sick.  
  
Hands reached out to snatch their feet and drag them back - they were losing momentum and, thinking fast, Geralt used his powerful legs to kick off one of the larger enemies directly in their path. It hit home, his heavy boot colliding with a massive, stalwart chest and propelling them back towards the safer ledge.  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
“ _What_?” He was sobbing at this point, burying his face in the vine as they sailed across the canyon at breakneck speeds yet again.  
  
“Let go when I say!”  
  
“Do I _have_ to?”  
  
Before Geralt could shoot back a scathing retort the ground was beneath them. Once again, a perilously narrow window.  
  
“ _Now_!”  
  
They released the vine and crashed to the ground in a conjoined bundle, Geralt wrapping his arms around Jaskier in an effort to lessen the brunt of the landing.  
  
Both men rolled in a cloud of dust until the wide trunk of a tree brought them to an abrupt, bruising stop.  
  
“Swinging from a fucking _vine_ , Jaskier?” Geralt growled, shifting beneath the lithe frame atop his, groaning at the placement of gangly knees. “Whose shit ballad did you steal that from?”  
  
The bard rolled off him and onto his back, peering up at the trees above. His face was bright red from exertion, an absolutely indignant expression on it. “Like felling a tree to create a bridge is somehow _more_ plausible?”  
  
There was a moment of relative silence where they both remained strewn on the ground, chests heaving. Eventually, when Jaskier propped himself up on the elbow of his good arm, he noticed Geralt had shifted into a cross-legged position - his back was to him, and his broad shoulders were shaking.  
  
Worry gripped the bard immediately as he thought back to the incident at the inn. He sat up all the way, extending a cautious hand. “Geralt? Are you all right? I mean, if it makes you feel any better, I tested it before I jumped, and - and it _seemed_ like it would hold - ”  
  
The shaking intensified. “ _Seemed_?”  
  
His voice sounded strained, and it wasn’t until the Witcher turned around that Jaskier realized he was _laughing_. Quite heartily, too. Deep, pleasantly rich belly laughter that put a rare, carefree look on his usually stoic face.  
  
“Bloody hell - Ger _alt_! I just can’t keep up with you. Why on earth are you _laughing_?”  
  
“That was,” Geralt struggled to force out the words as his laughter subsided, wiping a stray bit of moisture from the corner of his eye, “so _fucking_ stupid.”  
  
“Oh, ha- _ha_.” He went to cross his arms over his chest, hissing when he remembered Geralt had yanked one free from its socket. “And who’s the one who ran back in the first place? Where’s my ‘thanks for saving my life, Jaskier - ’”  
  
He was interrupted as the other man suddenly leaned forward, pressing a quick, chaste kiss to his lips. Warm, angular eyes found his, still bright and brimming with laughter.  
  
“I love you, Jaskier. Even though you’re a reckless arse.”  
  
The way he said it, with such honesty and certainty, had Jaskier’s churlish little expression dissolving instantly - never mind the fact that he hadn’t heard those three little words in _months_. He decided he would take them over a ‘thank you’ any day.  
  
“I - ” he struggled to reign in his surprise, clearing his throat obnoxiously loud, “ - well, you’ll be pleased to hear that I love you, too. Even though you’ve somehow managed to trump me in the ‘reckless arse’ department. Think you nearly tore my arm off. My favorite arm, no less.”  
  
Those mesmerizing eyes glanced down at the limb in question, frowning at the way it dragged lifelessly in the dirt. “That’s going to have to go back in. Now.”  
  
Jaskier paled considerably, using his legs to scoot back like a very uncoordinated earthworm.  
  
“Oh, no. No, no, no. Not _that_.”  
  
“Sorry. It’ll heal badly if we don’t take care of it.”  
  
“I was afraid you’d say that. Hoo, okay. Deep breaths. Go on, do your worst.” Blue eyes squeezed tightly shut as Geralt edged closer. “Thinking back, I don’t think I would’ve offered you my arm if I knew you weighed _that_ much, Geralt. Felt like I was supporting ten tons of solid steel - ”  
  
The Witcher rolled his eyes and pushed up his sleeves. Overhead, a flock of birds exploded out from the jungle’s canopy and scattered into the gray sky, alerted by Jaskier’s subsequent howls of pain as the joint was popped back into place.

♜ ♖

It was early evening when a cloaked figure hobbled into the village on what looked like one leg. Utilizing a walking stick, the stranger’s face was obscured by a large hood as they entered the tavern.  
  
The innkeeper was seated at the counter, reading a book when the little bell above his front door rang, drawing his attention away from worn, yellowed pages.  
  
“Haven’t had this much foot traffic in ages.” With a chuckle, he dog-eared his page and set the book down, turning to the newcomer. “How can I help you? If you’re after lodgings, I’m afraid we’re full up for the night. Stables are open, though. You can stay there, free of charge.”  
  
“That won’t be necessary.” The stranger’s voice was slick and slippery, almost serpentine. “I’m afraid I’m after something else.”  
  
“Supper?”  
  
“No. Well, maybe. I am a bit peckish.”  
  
The old man squinted. “Mind removing your hood? My eyesight’s not as good as it used to be.”  
  
“Ah, right. Where are my manners?”  
  
Pale, bony hands drew the hood back - the innkeeper nearly fell out of his stool when he caught sight of the face beneath. Two beady eyes, too small for their sockets, though they seemed to be growing fractionally with each passing second. It had to be a trick of the light, but the _skin_ around them was warped and melted, as if freshly burned. Nose and lips were swaddled in a purple mask, but the lumps beneath were wrong, deformed.  
  
“ _Sorry_. It’s been a long couple of days.”  
  
“Who - what are you? Stay ba - ”  
  
Vrart leaned over the counter, offering a congenial smile when the old man recoiled.  
  
“Let me stop you right there. Nothing personal, I’m just so tired of that whole _spiel_. Now, it seems I’ve lost my two companions. One’s big and strong, the other...not so much. Have you seen them?”  
  
The innkeeper was clearly terrified, gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turned white. “Hard to say. Lots of folks come through here.”  
  
“You do realize you only _just_ informed me of the sudden spike in...foot traffic? Did I get that right?”  
  
“Yes, but it’s just a figure of _speech_ \- ”  
  
“Huh. Human colloquialisms.” A shrug communicating just how little he cared. “How about that?”  
  
The man was practically shitting himself by then and, realizing he would need to switch tactics if he was going to get a straight answer, Vrart sighed and closed his eyes - his one-person audience watched in horror as mottled skin started bubbling, features crunching and rearranging themselves.  
  
When he opened his eyes again, they were still terribly small, but a brilliant shade of blue. One hand pulled down his mask to reveal the rest of his face, which was a morbid, burnt-up copy of Jaskier’s.  
  
“I’ll ask once more. Have you seen this man? Goes by the name ‘ _Ger-alt_.’” With the bard’s voice, he said it slowly, letting the second syllable linger on his tongue far longer than necessary. “You have until the count of three. One, _two_ \- ”  
  
“Yes - yes, he was here!” Trembling violently, the innkeeper’s hands were darting around beneath the counter, searching for any sort of weapon. “Left just this morning, gods, _please_ have mercy - ”  
  
“Gods? _Where_?” Vrart snorted while absentmindedly picking at his teeth. Eventually, he pulled out a small, bloodied feather, ignoring the man’s horrified expression as he flicked it over his shoulder. “Did you see which way they went?”  
  
“North, towards the bridge - they were in an awful hurry to leave.”  
  
“Smart.” A tongue darted out to wet scarred lips. “Rumor has it there’s a monster on the loose. Anything else?”  
  
“That’s all I know, honest.”  
  
“ _Wonderful_.”  
  
Vrart turned to leave, but what the old man said next had his shoulders squaring, hand stilling on the doorknob.  
  
“Wait - that wasn’t his name, though. His friend called him something else.” A frown as he struggled to remember. “Something flowery, like...”  
  
“ _Jaskier_?”  
  
“That’s the one!”  
  
With a soft _click_ , Vrart locked the door. His tone had taken on a harsh edge. “How bothersome. Are you positive?”  
  
“Oh, yes. They - they said each other’s names quite often - and loudly.”  
  
“I see.” Vrart stalked backwards without turning to see where he was going, skidding to a stop at the counter before swiveling his body like a marionette and making his way around. Fingers brushed the marred skin of his face as he casually matched the old man’s steps until his back hit the wall. “You know, I suppose I could go for a nice meal. Seems birds just aren’t cutting it. Rather small around here, aren’t they?”  
  
“I’ve got - I’ve got some fish, or - or _stew_ \- ”  
  
“No, no. I require something more...” Vrart licked his lips, eyeing the man’s healthy gut, “ _substantial_.”  
  
Stretching Jaskier’s mouth into an impossibly wide, wicked grin, he descended upon his prey.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There had to be at least one heroic vine swinging moment before they left! Idk how realistic that is but, to be fair, they’re currently afflicted with a body-swapping curse and being chased by a shapeshifting lizard so...realism clearly _isn’t_ a big factor here


	69. Chapter 68 & 1/2: *~UPDATE~*

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey friends!

Apologies for any formatting issues as I’m useless with mobile ao3, but I wanted to use the end of my hiatus to post an update that sheds some light on the current state of our world, as well as let you know that I have not forgotten you or this fic. I’m not sure if this is something people do in fics and I’m sorry if it’s not, bc I know you’re expecting some Geralt/Jaskier lovin’ when you click. But please indulge me for a sec, if u don't mind.  
  
If I haven’t mentioned before (not sure...68 chapters of captions and replying to comments, it's all a blur) I’m from NYC and we're currently protesting.  
  
As someone with privilege and access to many useful resources, it's my responsibility to use them to educate myself and others and spread awareness. We must protect black lives, whether it be in person or however we can virtually, so I'm going to share some important links below.  
  
As for the fic, I am safe and I am back, and will be posting the new chapter this weekend. 🖤 Thank you for all your wonderful comments, your concern is seen and so, so appreciated. 🖤 Again, this is probs a little strange, but I think it’s important to use everything we've got to spread info and awareness. And for those traumatized, those scared, this is a safe space. I am a safe space, even if you simply need to talk.

I know you were expecting a chapter and thank you so so SO much for reading. Please, please, please check out the links, and I’ll see you this weekend with some bonkers Geraskier hijinks, and the return of Yen, Ciri, and Annika! Also, a talking bear! Stay safe out there!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some useful links containing ways to lend aid, even if you cannot attend protests! I will continue to provide them through updates, and have also considered fulfilling Geraskier prompts in return for signing petitions, if you are interested:  
>   
> https://blacklivesmatters.carrd.co/# (important petitions, a compilation of vital info)  
>   
> https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=bCgLa25fDHM (how to donate if you don’t have the means: simply turn off adblocker, don’t skip ads, stream stream stream)  
>   
> https://docs.google.com/document/d/1CjZMORRVuv-I-qo4B0YfmOTqIOa3GUS207t5iuLZmyA/mobilebasic (absolute master thread of free legal help per state and other incredibly useful info)


	70. Chapter 70

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Oh, wow. I’m back! There is a chapter below this, but I would appreciate a moment of your time. I know things have died down in the media, but they’re far from over. Please don’t stop saying their names even if they’re no longer trending:  
>  **Breonna Taylor. Aiyana Jones. Agatha Felix. Tamir Rice. Jordan Edwards. George Floyd. Kimani Gray. Trayvon Martin. Darnesha Harris. Michael Brown. Christian Taylor. Kendrec McDade. Tatiana Hall. Ahmaud Arbery. Brayla Stone. Jonathan Ferrel. Sean Bell. Oscar Grant. Atatiana Jefferson. Maurice Gordon. Sandra Bland. Regis Morchinski Paouet. Philandro Castile. Daivid McAtee. Tony McDade. Tanisha Anderson. Natasha McKenna. Alton Sterling. Elijah McClain. And too many others.**  
>  Black lives matter. Black trans lives matter. I implore you to keep at whatever you’re doing to help the movement. Continue signing petitions - they do make a difference. Continue speaking out. Don’t let this get swept under the rug.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As for my absence, I think I bit off more than I could chew by mentioning a new chapter in that update. Every time I had the chance to write the words just wouldn’t come. Until one day they did! That’s life tho. Reading your comments now is making me smile so big, I’ll be replying to them all! :)

The unvarnished wooden walls of the inn were coated in bright red splatters of blood. Vrart’s chin and mouth were smeared with the stuff. He was seated atop the innkeeper’s open chest cavity, skimming through the visitors’ log he had found on the counter and loudly sucking the marrow from a rib bone.  
  
“Jaskier, Jaskier, _Jaskier_.” He said the name mockingly, hissing out the s’s as he popped his fingers into his mouth and cleaned them one by one, lips smacking wetly. “Pain in my _ass_ -kier.”  
  
Still wearing the bard’s face, his skin had healed, eyes finally filling out their sockets. The leg destroyed by Geralt’s yrden was stretched out on the floor before him, pants rolled all the way up - it had been tiny, the size of a child’s and floundering in their linen material, but as he ate it grew and grew until it was nearly a suitable length for his adult body. He wiggled his brand new toes experimentally.  
  
“Really wish you didn’t drink so much.” Blue eyes peered down at his victim before gesturing up to the half-eaten lump of flesh hanging over the edge of the counter. “Made your liver _completely_ inedible.”  
  
He received no response from the corpse.  
  
“So hard to find quality human liver these days, what with the liquor, the mutton, and that awful powder you all seem to love - oh, there I go again, getting side-tracked. As I was saying before, I’m _also_ looking for my associates. Have you seen them?” He glanced down at the innkeeper’s empty eye sockets and chuckled. “Sorry - you’re not likely to see much of anything anymore, are you?”  
  
With an amused sigh, he returned his attention to the list in hand, tossing the bone over his shoulder. His eyes zeroed in on three names at the very bottom.  
  
Above, previously alerted by the old man’s aborted cries for help, three pairs of feet thudded frantically about the attic suite. Vrart closed his eyes and inhaled deeply through his nose, feeling the vibrations caused by the commotion.  
  
“Hate to dine and dash, but I’ve already stayed too long. Thanks for the meal.”  
  
A pale hand tapped the innkeeper’s bloodied cheek, causing his head to loll to the side. Then, the shifter stood and stretched, a playful grin on his face as he sauntered over to the staircase. He grabbed the banister and hung off it, otherworldly eyes peering up the stairs.  
  
“Na-a-rra!” He used Jaskier’s rich voice to sing her name. “Is that you up there? Look at me - I’m a _bard_ , now! Isn’t that hil _ar_ ious? Let me sing you a song!” He followed up his offer with a giggle and a pregnant pause, as though he was a child in the midst of trying to keep some silly secret, all giddy excitement and anticipation. “ _Hello_?”  
  
No response. One set of feet thumped around more heavily than the others, the scent of stale blood wafting through the floorboards and reaching his nose.  
  
“ _Stet_? You’re still alive? Ooh, I’m coming up!”  
  
His leg back to working order, Vrart danced happily up the stairs - snickering when he heard hushed, panicked murmurs and the glass pane of a window rattling as it was hurriedly shoved open.  
  
He approached the closed door, the tips of his fingers giving a light, rhythmic tap before he dug the bard’s blunt nails into the wood and dragged them down with a discordant screech. Long, thin streaks of dark blood were left in their wake.  
  
When his friends stubbornly refused to answer, he shivered and opened his mouth, jaw clicking softly as it unhinged. Easier to speak that way. Jaskier’s jaw was surprisingly narrow, considering how _big_ the mouth on him was.  
  
“I don’t know why you’re all acting like this. It’s not like I’m going to _eat_ you. Unless - would you consider yourselves big on the drink? One or two a week is fine, but I’ll need to know if you frequently exceed eight.”  
  
He tried the knob, found the door to be locked, and abruptly started kicking at it, toes cracking in his boot.  
  
“You know, I could _really_ use some cheering up right about now.” Another kick. “Got some bad news today.” Another. “Those insignificant _worms_ have been messing with my spell. Grubby little hands unraveling all my hard work, just switching and switching and _switching_ and switching - ”  
  
It seemed he had gotten stuck in a loop. With a deep, steadying breath, he shook out his shoulders before continuing his vicious assault on the door. The wood splintered and creaked in protest.  
  
“Sorry. Lost myself there. Anyway, do you know what that means? It means absolute _chaos_. Who knows how far it will spread? A mess - a mess that _I_ have to clean up. And I - detest - _cleaning_!”  
  
Finally, on that last word, the door gave and he stepped in quite casually, considering how angrily he had been shouting a moment ago. A frigid breeze greeted him, teasing the long white curtains of the open window. The room was empty.  
  
“ _Ohh_. I understand. I’m ‘it,’ now, aren’t I?” He chuckled. “Hardly the time for games, but when on earth, right?”  
  
Placing his hands on either side of the sill, he nimbly hopped over, his heavy landing on the dirt path below kicking up a small cloud of dust. He didn’t bat an eye when Jaskier’s slender ankle crunched beneath him; with a gleeful little laugh, he hobbled off after the tail end of a red ponytail as it disappeared northward into the trees.

♜ ♖

“We should probably lay down some ground rules, now that you’re...” While trying to find a delicate way to put it, Jaskier peered thoughtfully at Geralt, who was trudging a few steps ahead. “You know...throwing caution to the wind. Living in the moment.”  
  
“‘Living in the moment,’ Jaskier?” Geralt scowled. After his laughter and the light feeling that followed his proclamation of love had died down, he was forced to face the sobering fact that he had not only frozen up in battle - risking both of their lives - but also nearly killed himself running after a _trinket_. For someone who put very little value in material objects, that was a big red flag. “I’m a fucking mess. A ticking time bomb.”  
  
“Yeah, well.” Jaskier’s fingers teased at the collar of his own shirt, thumb brushing the spot above where the demonic sigil remained deeply branded into his skin. “Guess that makes two of us.”  
  
“That supposed to make me feel better?”  
  
“No, not really. I was going for more of a ‘misery loves company’ kind of thing.”  
  
Over his shoulder, Geralt scrutinized the bard for a moment longer before grunting, shaking his head, and turning back to watch where he was going.  
  
After crossing the last bridge, lush fronds were slowly replaced by the pine bristles of evergreens and, eventually, they found their way onto a treacherous, forested mountain pass.  
  
They decided to remain off the main path, navigating their way through trees and around steep drops. Only a day’s journey to Yen. One more day of hellish switching, of headaches and random emotional outbursts. Yen would fix them, Geralt thought. She _had_ to fix them.  
  
As they moved north, the weather grew warmer, not colder - a bad sign, as the Witcher had traversed through that area less than a week ago and found snow rather than humid heat. The curse spread far wider than he originally thought, and was apparently not just limited to the coast. Whether that was a new development - hard to tell if it was spreading or if it really was just that large-scale - he did not know.  
  
“Anyway, ground rules.” Jaskier piped up, breezy as ever. “Until we get ourselves sorted, we run from _any_ fight. As soon as you smell trouble. No exceptions.”  
  
“That’s all we’ve _been_ doing, Jaskier.”  
  
“Well. Good job us, then. Let’s keep at it. _Second_ \- and I know this is going to be _so_ hard for you, Geralt, but,” Jaskier was listing the rules on the fingers of his uninjured arm - the other wasn’t in terribly bad shape, but Geralt had instructed him to limit movement as much as possible, “when we get to the city, it’s probably best if you don’t speak to anyone. If we’re approached, _I’ll_ do the talking. Help us avoid any more sudden...outbursts.”  
  
The Witcher grumbled something unintelligible, though judging by his tone, it wasn’t a compliment.  
  
“What’s that?” The bard put his hand to his ear. “Is that a ‘yes, Jaskier?’ A ‘no more threatening strangers for no reason, Jaskier?’”  
  
Through gritted teeth, “ _Fine_.”  
  
“Right. Okay.” Jaskier released a low whistle, racking his brain for any more important stipulations. Finding none. He couldn’t just let them settle into another awkward stretch of silence, however. It didn’t help that both men were very obviously uncomfortable with Geralt’s new habit of crying, laughing, and hurling himself into dangerous situations without warning. “So-o-o, do we know what exactly these people want with your body? Who on earth could their ‘master’ be?”  
  
“No idea. Whoever it is, they’re probably after my lifespan.”  
  
“Which is...long?”  
  
“Yes.” Geralt frowned at the unexpected reappearance of a niggling worry, one that occasionally entered his thoughts during the late parts of the night when he found he couldn’t sleep and instead watched the gentle rise and fall of Jaskier’s chest. It was something they had never actually discussed due to an unspoken, mutual refusal to acknowledge it. “Long.”  
  
“Longer...than mine?”  
  
A somewhat surprised pause as the bard voiced that _exact_ worry, almost verbatim. It was jarring, felt almost taboo. “Yes.”  
  
“Ah.” Then, speaking casually, Jaskier changed the subject. There had been a slight, almost undetectable tremor in his voice, but when he spoke again it was gone, his words coming quickly and giving Geralt no chance to dwell on the heavy truth that quietly burdened them both. “And that thing - what was its name? _Bart_?”  
  
“Vrart.”  
  
“Right. How long until he comes after us again, do you think? Of all of them, he _does_ seem to be the most motivated. And the most terrifying. He talked an awful lot about _eating_ me.”  
  
“Like to see him try.”  
  
“Ooh. Scary voice.” Jaskier wiggled his eyebrows, gingerly lifting a heavy branch with his lute and passing under. He had managed to outpace Geralt and kept turning back to better maintain eye contact. Remembering that they were on a mountain and realizing he should _probably_ pay more attention to his surroundings, he turned back around as he spoke. “Shapeshifters bewa-be-b- _bear_!”  
  
With a shout, he flung himself backwards, bumping into the Witcher’s solid chest.  
  
Before them, about ten feet away, stood a massive brown bear. It was on its hind legs, using the trunk of a tree to aggressively scratch its back. When it saw them it looked just as startled, freezing in place.  
  
A babbling, horrified Jaskier made to scurry behind Geralt, but the Witcher placed a firm hand on his shoulder, fixing him where he stood.  
  
“Have you lost your _mind_?” The bard’s voice was a low hiss, unable to tear his eyes away from the furry colossus. Though the encounter was generally terrifying, there was something peculiar about the creature’s eyes. They had widened considerably upon noticing them, reacting in a quintessentially _human_ fashion. “ _Bear_ , Geralt - Geralt there’s a - that’s a _bear_ , you menace! We have to _run_ \- ”  
  
Geralt lowered the sword he had swiftly drawn, sniffing the air. “A mother. Her cubs are nearby.” A frown as he listened to their soft, mewling cries. They were scared. Strange, that she wasn’t responding to her babies - stranger still that beneath the smell of damp fur, he caught wind of something else...something _off_. “Stay still, don’t move. With any luck, she’ll see we’re not a threat and be on her way.”  
  
Jaskier absolutely _hated_ that idea, face going white as a sheet. “And _without_ any luck?”  
  
“She’ll attack. Better not turn around - bears usually go for the arse first.”  
  
The bard stifled a horrified gasp before scowling up at the older man, wondering how he had the audacity to offer a teasing _smirk_ in such perilous times. After stewing for a moment, he muttered, “Seems you two have something in common, then.”  
  
That earned him an amused chuckle. “Seems we d - ”  
  
Suddenly, the bear cut him off by releasing a loud, guttural bellow. It sounded almost mournful. A little pathetic, if Jaskier was being honest. Geralt cursed and readied his weapon once more as the beast stood even taller, nearly reaching the highest branch on the tree and looking very much like she was about to lunge. He had really hoped to avoid harming a new mother, but if she posed a threat to Jaskier, he would _have_ to -  
  
Both men looked on in confusion, however, as she made another _very_ strange noise - like a miserable _sigh_ \- and plopped herself down until she was sitting on the forest floor. It was an odd and uncomfortable-looking position, to say the least. Furry legs splayed out before her, back resting against the tree. What Jaskier could only call _arms_ were attempting to cross themselves over her chest, though they moved clumsily and couldn’t quite make the reach.  
  
“Er - Geralt?” Jaskier allowed his tense shoulders sag a little, peering curiously at the very emotive creature before them. “Does she seem to be...pouting?”  
  
It was then that the Witcher placed the strange, pungent smell that had been wafting off of her. Human. She smelled _human_ , almost as if a man was wearing her skin - though that was in no way possible. This creature was moving, _alive_. Not even the dim forest lighting could lead him to believe that there was a human body in there, concealed by her carcass.  
  
“That’s not a bear.”  
  
Her eyes lit up at Geralt’s words, dark lips moving, though no words came - only snuffles and snorts. Jaskier let out a snort of his own. “Um, _yes_ , actually. That is most _certainly_ a bear. You may have been able to fool me in the early stages of our friendship, like with that baby griffin - the one that was _not_ an overgrown canary, as you so adamantly claimed - but I’ll be damned if I fall for another one of your nasty tricks. Really thought we’d moved past all that once I let you into my breeches. You know, I still have the scar from when it pecked my - ”  
  
“It’s not a bear, Jaskier.” The Witcher insisted, voice grave and containing none of the wicked amusement it had before. He lowered his sword, finally releasing Jaskier’s shoulder and taking a calculated step until he was standing between the bard and the beast. “It’s a human.”


	71. Chapter 71

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This turned into a looooooong double chapter, the bear subplot really got away from me... *snorts* Jaski-bear, anyway sorry for the length, I really did try to cut back but my brain is fried lmao

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also here’s a useful link - a massive, amazing compilation of resources on anti-racist allyship: tinyurl.com/ycx8ccyj

“A human.” Jaskier deadpanned, forehead creasing in concern. “Are you feeling all right? Did you hit your head? Tell me, are you seeing the human right now?”  
  
“No, Jask - ”  
  
“I’m not trying to be an arse, Geralt - and I mean no offense to you, either.” He offered a polite nod to the bear, who looked _pretty_ offended. “Truly, _not_ trying to be an - ”  
  
“You’re being a complete arse.”  
  
“If it helps, I believe _you_ believe that’s a human being - ”  
  
“For fuck’s sake - ”  
  
“I also believe we haven’t slept very much in the last few days, and you’re just coming down from a harrowing, near-death experience, and - she’s a very polite bear, I’ll give you that - but I’m worried you might have a concussion - ”  
  
“The _curse_ , Jaskier - the fucking _curse_!” Geralt, who had been clutching his temples to will away a budding headache, finally raised his voice in an effort to cut through the bard’s worried rambling. “Someone switched bodies with that bear. I can still smell sulphur in the air from when it happened. _Fucking_ hell.”  
  
“Oh. _Oh-h-h_.” Blue eyes widened, followed by a relieved, somewhat nervous laugh. “Why didn’t you just say that in the first place?” A thought stole his smile away, however. “Even still, how is that possible? From what we’ve seen, it only happens during an argument. You’re telling me some fool managed to get into an honest-to-gods tiff with a _bear_? Er - no offense.”  
  
Once again, the bear looked incredibly - rightfully - offended. Maintaining his position as the most tactless individual currently in existence, Jaskier continued.  
  
“I mean, I haven’t seen one in awhile, but - correct me if I’m wrong, here - I’m _fairly_ certain bears don’t talk back - ”  
  
With an annoyed snort, the bear jerked her head to the left. They had ended up at the center of a large, cliff-side clearing; when both men followed her gaze, they found a small pile of belongings resting beside the remnants of a campfire.  
  
Among the pile sat a beaten and battered bow, along with a near-empty quiver of iron arrows. There was also a bundle of less-than-fresh skins that was slowly unraveling, the sudden heat wave and humidity working at the fraying ropes that bound it.  
  
Frowning, Geralt knelt beside the site, fingers brushing against a telltale mark in the dirt.  
  
“A hunter? He - ” The bear growled, meriting a startled yelp from Jaskier. Geralt, however, only chuckled. “Huntress?” That earned him a pleased nod. “My apologies. So, you were camping - ”  
  
“We’re sticking with the idea that this is a person and not an extremely emotive bear, then?” They both glared at him. “Just making sure.”  
  
Geralt followed the disturbances to the edge of the clearing. Smaller paw prints, larger paw prints. A massive, bear-sized indent in the ground. He analyzed them all with a troubled expression.  
  
“A curious cub wandered up to you. Its mother attacked.” He frowned. “You grappled here, but...were flung apart. She came to first, left with your body.”  
  
Looking somewhat impressed, the bear grunted in approval.  
  
“Well, that’s a real shame. Sorry to hear it, hate to see it, but we’re kind of in a hurry - ”  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt’s tone was stony, serious. He breathed in deeply through his nose, hard lines forming on his face. “You can’t feel what I feel. The magic here, it’s more volatile. I don’t like it.”  
  
“I wholeheartedly agree, which is why I think we should turn around and - ”  
  
Geralt turned to the bear. “We’ll get you back in your body.”  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
She somehow managed to display relief and gratitude to Geralt while simultaneously shooting Jaskier a scathing, side-eyed glare.  
  
“Geralt, are you quite sure about this? Have you forgotten our rules - which include fleeing at the first sign of trouble? What if you...you know,” he lowered his voice, “ _lose control again_?”  
  
“We can’t just leave her like this. And the cubs will starve without their mother’s care.” Gold eyes softened at the bard’s steadfastly worried expression. “I feel fine. Clearer than I have since all this started.”  
  
Jaskier pursed his lips, searching Geralt for any visible cracks. There were none. “All right.” Defeated, he turned to their furry friend. “And what are your thoughts? Don’t suppose you can just...grin and bear it?”  
  
The Witcher rolled his eyes, and the bear tossed Jaskier - who was waiting expectantly for his joke to land - an incredulous, subsequently irritated look.  
  
“Oh, settle down. We’re obviously going to help.” The bard’s soft, pink lips stretched into a sly grin. “Don’t go losing your...com _paw_ sure.”  
  
“Gods help us.”  
  
“ _What_ , Geralt? I can’t have a little fun? Grisly lack of humor, on both of you.” A gasp, as if he had struck gold. “ _Grizzly_!”  
  
With that, their suddenly far more confusing party prepared to delve deeper into the northern part of the forest, towards the strange scent carried to Geralt’s nose on the heavy, hot breeze. Blood, vomit, sweat. Confusion. Fear.  
  
Before they did, the Witcher slipped a hand into Jaskier’s and gave it a light squeeze. “We don’t know what we’re walking into. Stay close.”  
  
“Always, Geralt.”  
  
The taken aback, sweetly crooked smile that produced had the bard swooning, despite his irritation. 

♜ ♖

The scent brought them through a very dense part of the forest. Spiderwebs, inches-thick, loomed overhead. Heavy branches hung very low, forcing the men to crouch for most of the journey. With much less ease and a lot of maneuvering, the bear brought up the rear, squeezing her way through the cramped terrain.  
  
Jaskier nearly had a heart attack when his lute passed through a particularly dense web, the snap of its fibers sounding horribly similar to a bone breaking. As he gagged and lowered himself so that he was practically crawling, he could have sworn he heard the bear let out an amused snort.  
  
“What’s so funny?” Having adjusted the instrument until it was clutched protectively to his chest, Jaskier used its tip to poke the Witcher’s backside. “I don’t think our new friend likes me very much, Geralt.”  
  
“You’re the one who told her she needed a bath.”  
  
Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “Well, it’s _true_. What, does getting turned into a bear excuse you from practicing personal hygiene? I say _nay_.”  
  
Suddenly, their slow but steady progress was interrupted by a piercing cry from somewhere up ahead. There were no actual words spoken, but it sounded like someone caught in the throes of excruciating emotional pain - a rusty, heartbreaking sort of wail.  
  
As it tore through the trees, their party came to an abrupt halt. For a long, drawn-out minute it continued, before petering off and ending with a wretched sob.  
  
Silence fell over the trio, Jaskier cringing when his fearful gulp came out just a little too loud. After a moment, he spoke in a hushed murmur.  
  
“That’s it. I’m out. I draw the line at ghostly wails. Really not interested in seeing what kind of - of _banshee_ lies ahead, thanks.”  
  
“Keep your voice low. We’re close.”  
  
At that point, they were in too deep, anyway. Eventually, the trees gave way to a perplexing scene.  
  
A mostly-naked woman was loping about the perimeter of another small clearing. She walked on all fours and her back was arched painfully. Long, chestnut hair was badly knotted, littered with twigs and leaves.  
  
The half-devoured carcass of a fawn lay not far off, right beside a pile of vomit. It was likely she had tried to eat it, but found her human body couldn’t handle the raw meat. Judging by her cracked lips and sunken eyes, she was also dangerously dehydrated.  
  
At the center of the cramped space sat three cubs. It seemed the woman was trying to draw them away, to safety - a steep cliff sat a few feet to their right. They were agitated by her presence, however, and remained huddled in a small group, mewling whenever she got too close.  
  
Behind Jaskier and Geralt, the bear made a low noise.  
  
“I’m assuming that’s your body.” Jaskier whispered, not wanting to be the one to attract the woman’s attention. Upon seeing the state of the cubs - malnourished, scared, motherless - his apprehension dissipated. At his shoulder, the bear let out a mortified grunt. “You look like me after a rough night at the tavern.” A pause. “How em _bear_ rassing.”  
  
“Fucking magic.” Geralt, shaking his head at the sight. “Now, to switch them back.”  
  
“But how? The only thing that seems to fix it is working together. Getting along, and all that nonsense. Do you think she’d be open to some team-building? Maybe a few trust falls?”  
  
Geralt snorted. “I’m sure that’d go over well.”  
  
“What about a nice, heart-to-heart chat? Huntress and bear, setting aside their differences? I don’t speak bear, though.” He puffed his cheeks out, glancing back at their furry companion. “How about you? Have you bothered to learn the language yet?”  
  
She shook her head.  
  
“Bollocks.”  
  
“I can pacify her with a sign. Get them to touch, see if that will reverse the spell.”  
  
“By that logic, you’ll switch if you touch her, too.” Jaskier frowned. “If she attacks, that is.”  
  
“She’ll most definitely attack. I can keep my distance.” A weary sigh. “I’m going in.”  
  
Somewhat abruptly, Geralt shimmied out from under a low-hanging branch, straightening to his full height once he emerged from the underbrush.  
  
“Wait, that’s a terrible - oi, Geralt! _Get your fine arse back here_!”  
  
“Stay put until I say.” Immediately catching the attention of the feral woman, Geralt drew his sword. “To be safe, don’t touch _her_ ,” he gestured to the bear, “either.”  
  
As soon as she saw the Witcher, the woman hunched her shoulders and released a defensive snarl. Stealing a furtive glance back at her cubs, she reared back and lunged.  
  
He reacted swiftly, thrusting his free hand up and casting aard before she could make contact. The force of it sent her flying back, slamming into the trunk of a tree hard enough to leave a small dent.  
  
As he stalked towards her, preparing the axii sign on his fingers, Jaskier noticed the bear’s body tensing from where she was looking on beside him.  
  
Before Geralt could get close enough to cast, the woman rolled to his left and leapt at him once more. He was forced to abandon the sign and dodge right, but her assault continued and he had to blast her back again, careful not to let her touch him. That time, her head smacked painfully against a rock jutting out of the ground, drawing blood.  
  
Alerted by the sight, the bear - before Jaskier could stop her - broke through the branches and burst into the clearing. She stood on her hind legs, letting out a deep bellow.  
  
“Hey! You can’t - stop!” Jaskier scrambled out after her, a branch slicing his cheek as he hastily placed himself between her and the ongoing fight. “Just _where_ do you think you’re going?”  
  
Geralt was having some trouble pinning the woman down without being able to touch her. Through gritted teeth, dodging an arm as it tried clawing at him, he shouted the bard’s name.  
  
A loud roar shook Jaskier to his core and he braced himself before flailing his hands in the alarmed creature’s face, trying to draw her attention away from the sight of her own body bleeding, of it facing down Geralt’s sword. “Calm down, will you? He’s got it under control, I promise, he won’t hurt you, just - please _stay_ \- ”  
  
The bear reared back as Jaskier thrust his arms out in an attempt to block her path. He noticed her eyes suddenly looked far less human than they had before, though he didn’t have time to dwell on it as she growled and went to bat him aside with a massive paw.  
  
The blow never came, however. As soon as she made contact with his side, something nullified its impact. It seemed as though the world had come to a sudden halt, just for one split second, before the clearing was rocked by an invisible explosion while simultaneously being bathed in a bright, white light.  
  
Jaskier bit back a cry as that horribly familiar feeling overcame him. It felt like he was a weed being torn free from the earth. His body flew face-first towards a tree, though he didn’t remain conscious long enough to feel the impact as the world around him went dark.  
  
He came to almost immediately, terribly disoriented, blinking repeatedly to clear the blurry spots clouding his vision. His cheek was resting on the soft, mossy ground. Had it always been that soft? No, certainly not. Soft and _squishy_.  
  
There were far more pressing matters, he vaguely recalled. Time to move. Wincing against the dull throbbing in his skull, Jaskier shifted and tried to sit up. His body hardly listened to him and he found that it was extremely heavy. After a moment, he flopped back down. Geralt. Where was Geralt?  
  
It was then that he noticed his own leather boot resting just a few centimeters from his nose. After a beat, it twitched and started sliding away. Oh, it was still on his leg. That was his leg, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t it on his body?  
  
“ - skier!”  
  
Horror flooded his system as he realized that the figure slowly getting to its feet, the one wearing his boots, the one walking on _his_ legs was...himself. There was a Jaskier before him, looking just as confused as he felt, but coming to its senses a great deal faster.  
  
Blue eyes regarded him with an annoying amount of pity.  
  
“I’m so sorry about this, but I can’t risk getting stuck in there again. I’ve a daughter, she’s waiting for me. And you do kind of deserve it, after all those terrible puns.” Hey, that was _his_ voice. “It’s not so bad, once you get used to the fleas.”  
  
Yikes. What was this imposter prattling on about? _Fleas_? Jaskier groaned and attempted to speak, but it came out as a rough growl and oh, gods. Finally, he understood what had happened.  
  
No, no, no no no.  
  
Watery brown eyes glanced down to where his hands should have been and instead found a pair of dirty, padded paws.  
  
Oh, no.  
  
The huntress offered him one last apologetic look before turning her back, making to get the hell away from all the madness. In _his_ body. He called after her, but it came out as a series of unintelligible moans and groans.  
  
She didn’t make it very far, thankfully. A blur of black and white came out of nowhere and tackled her to the ground - as it did, the clearing throbbed once more, that same blinding light returning full-force.  
  
Jaskier watched in awe as both his own and Geralt’s bodies were flung apart, landing on opposite edges of the clearing, where they remained motionless. He had never seen it secondhand, the turbulence, the way the air changed...  
  
Finally, he managed to get his massive body in gear, standing tentatively on stubby hind legs. He tried calling Geralt’s name but the only sound that came was a low whine.  
  
Before he could investigate further, a panicked squeal stole his attention away. Something about that sound reached some primal part of him, urging him to go to it.  
  
He turned his head a bit too quickly, knocking himself off balance and crashing heavily back down to the ground. With a great deal of effort, he managed to get on all fours, slowly lumbering over to check out the source of the noise.  
  
There, at the edge of the cliff, was the feral woman. She was clawing at the dirt, leaning dangerously close to the ledge and peering down.  
  
As Jaskier approached, she turned to face him, eyes alight with terror - though she didn’t attack.  
  
Another squeal. The woman watched as he cautiously poked his head over the edge to see what all the fuss was about.  
  
There, scrabbling at the face of the cliff - and having managed, by some miracle, to land on a small shelf of packed dirt - was a cub. One wrong step away from falling to its death.  
  
The woman, unable to properly utilize her human arms, had been trying to catch it with her teeth. Her neck wasn’t long enough to reach.  
  
Meanwhile, the shelf trembled as the cub’s attempts to climb to safety intensified. It would crumble, soon enough. Not really thinking about what he was doing, Jaskier dug his paws into the dirt, fastening himself in place and cautiously extending his head over the ledge. From there, he used his mouth to gently pluck the cub up by the loose skin of its neck, hauling it up and over.  
  
As he did, the woman looked on - the poor thing was terrified, panting heavily, chest heaving. Once her cub was back on solid ground, though, the fear was replaced by a curious, cautious stare.  
  
Well, might as well give it a go.  
  
Carefully, Jaskier offered her his paw. After holding his gaze for a moment longer, they seemed to come to some sort of silent understanding and she clumsily met it with a hand of her own.  
  
The effect was instantaneous, though not nearly as violent as the switch he had just undergone. Once it was over, having at least returned to a _human_ body, Jaskier got to his feet. All the infernal switching left him feeling woozy and a bit drunk, the trees around him doubling and tilting dangerously.  
  
Get away from the cliff. Find Geralt.  
  
The bear, back in her own skin, used her nose to nudge her wayward cubs into formation. With one last glance at Jaskier - one that he could have sworn looked _grateful_ , of all things - the small group trudged off, disappearing into the trees.  
  
That left two more bodies to deal with. Geralt’s slowly began to stir, but Jaskier reminded himself that his lover wasn’t in there.  
  
“ _Honestly_ ,” the bard grumbled, staggering over to the Witcher’s prone form and squatting before it with a sour frown, “couldn’t just stay put and let Geralt handle things, could you? No, no. Gods forbid one of our plans goes smoothly for a change.”  
  
As Jaskier spoke - in a demure, feminine voice - gold eyes flickered open and settled upon him in obvious confusion. That confusion quickly morphed into fear as the huntress realized she was staring into her own face.  
  
Before she could jump to any ridiculous conclusions about what he was about to do, Jaskier stuck out his hand, impatiently jerking his head towards it when she hesitated.  
  
“Go on, then. Not trying to spend the rest of my days in the body of someone who thinks wearing a...” he cast an unsavory glance down, “ _loincloth_ is acceptable. _Eugh_.”  
  
Slowly, shakily, she piloted Geralt’s sturdy limbs (about as awkwardly as Jaskier had the first time they switched) and grabbed his hand. Moments later, following yet _another_ out-of-body experience, he found himself in the Witcher’s body. 

♜ ♖

Geralt was standing at the center of an endless sea of darkness. Though he could feel solid ground beneath his feet, he could not see it. Though he could smell the fresh greenery of the forest, he couldn’t make out the shapes of the trees on either side.  
  
And there, looming before him, was a massive silhouette. Too long. Thick. Serpentine. It looked like it had been waiting for him.  
  
“Naughty little mice.”  
  
Vrart.  
  
Geralt stood his ground. In the back of his mind, he knew what he was seeing wasn’t real. “What are you?”  
  
“Whatever you want me to be.”  
  
The monster’s voice had changed with each word until it was a near-perfect replica of Jaskier’s .  
  
“Whose orders are you following?” The world pulsed, then, nearly knocking Geralt over. “What was that?”  
  
“Ah.” Inky black eyes peered thoughtfully up at the sky. “Seems my attempt to fix things only made them worse.” They darted back down to Geralt, curving in amusement. “Poor thing. Your essence is in pieces, though I’m afraid that’s not my problem.”  
  
Above them, the clouds obscuring the moon slowly started to separate, allowing Geralt to catch bone-chilling glimpses of the monstrosity before him. Deep green, rippling scales. The glimmer of impossibly sharp teeth framed by an impossibly wide, grinning mouth.  
  
“Sorry, it looks like our time is up. I’ll be seeing you,” a scaly tail came up behind him, coiling tightly about his waist and drawing him towards its gaping maw - a forked tongue flicked him in the cheek, “ _soon_.”  
  
With that, the being swallowed him whole. 

♜ ♖

“ - eralt.”  
  
The world came back slowly, and the first thing Geralt registered was pain. Throbbing pain, that started in the base of his skull and blossomed up and out, reaching his temples, playing them like a set of drums.  
  
“Geralt.”  
  
A crick in his left shoulder screamed in protest when he moved. He realized, perhaps a little late, that he hadn’t yet opened his eyes.  
  
“ _Geralt_.”  
  
There was a warm hand cupping his cheek, then, giving him a tentative shake.  
  
“Careful.” A woman’s voice. “I think he really did hit his head this time.”  
  
Finally, Geralt managed to force his eyes open. And no, he would never get used to finding his own golden irises staring back at him. When the _fuck_ did they switch bodies?  
  
“Jaskier.” His voice rasped as though it hadn’t been used in days. With some effort, he propped himself up on his elbows, frowning against the late morning sunlight. “What the fuck?”  
  
“Yeah.” Those eyes curved and crinkled to make room for a relieved smile. The hand cupping his cheek gave one last squeeze before removing itself, and he found he instantly missed and craved its warmth. “That seems to be the motto lately, doesn’t it?”  
  
“How?” Geralt shifted until he was sitting cross-legged. He would also never get used to how stiff Jaskier’s body was upon waking up. Every damn time. “We didn’t even...”  
  
“Argue. I know.” Jaskier offered a small shrug, having found no answers in the time it took Geralt to regain consciousness. It was not lost on him that they hadn’t switched back yet. “Lots happened. I was a bear. Only snatched your body to keep _her_ from stealing it, like she tried with mine.”  
  
A low growl from Geralt - too low, making the bard’s voice crack. “She _what_?”  
  
The woman in question, who was keeping a safe distance from both of them, toyed with the hem of the Witcher’s black cloak. It seemed Jaskier had given it to her for coverage.  
  
“I’m truly sorry. At first, it was as though I was starting to forget myself...like I really _was_ a bear. Then, when I woke in his body, I - I panicked. I thought...I thought if you weren’t able to get me into my own, you’d force me back into that beast’s. I didn’t want to forget who I was again.”  
  
“You’re damn right I would have.” Geralt growled, using Jaskier for support as he stood. “In a heartbeat.”  
  
“You mean to say, Geralt,” Jaskier coquettishly batted his lashes, though he doubted it had the same effect without his large baby blues - either way, he was desperate to change the subject, having already forgiven the woman, “that you couldn’t love me as a bear? I thought I pulled it off rather well.”  
  
The Witcher pulled a face as an overwhelming, dizzying, almost painful surge of affection made him come to the realization that yes, he absolutely could. Deflecting, he fired back, “Bears aren’t allowed in taverns.”  
  
“That’s not a problem. You could bring my pint out to the stables.”  
  
“They can’t sing, either. And no matter how often you bathe, you’ll always smell like damp fur - ”  
  
“Stop it! I would be the _cleanest_ bear - ”  
  
The huntress could only sit through their banter for so long. Eventually, somewhat awkwardly, she cleared her throat.  
  
“Um. Anyway. I can’t thank you both enough. I’m in your debt, it seems.”  
  
At that, Jaskier’s ears perked. “You mean...a reward?”  
  
She chuckled. “I’m afraid I’ve not got much to offer, but my shack is a few hours south of here. If you need a place to stay, you’re more than welcome.”  
  
“No.” Geralt shot her a glare and wordlessly started preparing to leave. Needless to say, he didn’t forgive as easily as Jaskier. “We have somewhere to be.”  
  
“Yes, a horrible place filled with scary women who will no doubt kick our arses when they learn we’ve been cursed again.” Jaskier offered the huntress a playful smile. “Side note - you _might_ want to avoid tangling with any more wild animals on your way home.”  
  
Geralt’s face went dark at that, though he remained silent as the woman thanked them several more times before going on her way. He didn’t speak again until they had resumed their journey to the city.  
  
“I saw Vrart.”  
  
Jaskier, who had been humming a tune, stopped short. “You _what_? Where?”  
  
“He came to me, while I was out. Like he was checking in.” The Witcher scowled at the memory. He decided to leave out what the monster had told him regarding his essence. “Said he tried to fix things. Could be what’s making it worse.”  
  
“‘Worse?’”  
  
“Before, the curse had only been triggered, from what we saw, by our verbal disputes. But that woman...it happened to her during a physical one. With a fucking _bear_. Animals, other people...I thought the weather was just a side effect, but now I’m not so sure.”  
  
“Fantastic. So, to be clear - not only are we _yet again_ stuck in each other’s bodies, but now we can’t _touch_ anyone in a fight? What happens if we’re ambushed again?”  
  
“I don’t know.”  
  
“Well. Fuck me.”  
  
Geralt grunted in agreement, and both men lapsed into thoughtful silence as they plodded along, intent on reaching the girls before nightfall.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Thankfully, they did. Roughly four hours later, they arrived at the city just as the sun started its slow, western descent. Their journey was cut in half by a lovely little shortcut Geralt managed to find while searching for a way to continue avoiding the main road.  
  
Unfortunately, that small blessing did nothing to resolve their increasingly agitated moods. Tired, hungry, and disheartened by recent developments (additionally, no matter how often they tried - a _lot_ of tense, aggressive hand-holding went into that - they still could not switch back), they started bickering almost immediately upon entering the city’s familiar walls.  
  
It also didn’t help that - though Jaskier had checked him over several times for injury and found only a small gash - Geralt’s head still throbbed and pulsed.  
  
“Yen’s new place isn’t far.” Geralt paused before frowning up at the brown hair obscuring his vision. “You need a haircut. Your bangs are too fucking long.”  
  
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “I happen to like them like that.”  
  
“I can’t see.”  
  
“That’s _so_ dramatic, Geralt. They’re hardly past my eyebrows.”  
  
Ignoring that, the Witcher drew an undignified squeak from Jaskier as he shoved his hand into the back pocket of his leather pants, eventually producing a black string. Jaskier had to take a moment and compose himself after the unexpected groping, but once he did he glared at the string dubiously.  
  
“What are you doing?”  
  
“Fixing it.”  
  
“You’d better not make me look ridiculous, Geralt. There’s a certain standard I must uphold, for my _fans_ , and I hate to be the one to tell you this but those little half-up hairdos you love have been out of style for ages, and - ”  
  
Noticing the bard had lost himself in his tirade, Geralt sneakily tied his bangs up in a _ridiculous_ little ponytail at the top of his head. Once Jaskier’s castrating description of the Witcher’s poor fashion habits ended, however, he immediately noticed the change.  
  
“Geralt,” golden eyes narrowed, now glued to the horrid thing, which bobbed up and down with each step, “I will _not_ have you walking around in my body looking like a bloody bean sprout. You’ll spoil my public image. Take it _down_.”  
  
“No.” Geralt replied petulantly.  
  
“ _No_? You little - take it down now, or I’ll do it for you.”  
  
“Not happening.”  
  
“Ger _alt_!” Having had just about enough, Jaskier started grabbing for the tiny ponytail, trying to loosen its string. Geralt resisted, naturally. “I’m bigger, stronger, and - ow, that hurt! You are behaving like a _child_ \- ”  
  
“If you don’t release me, Jaskier, I’ll chop it all off - ”  
  
“You wouldn’t dare!” Jaskier gasped in horror, his efforts doubling. “Oh, that is _it_! Give - me - the _fucking_ \- string!”  
  
“Geralt? Jaskier?” A familiar voice rang out from somewhere to their left. Both men, arms tangled together, froze mid-fight and turned to face the newcomer. “Thought I smelled you. Ever heard of a bath? And what the _hell_ are you doing?”  
  
Standing at the center of the marketplace, balancing a basket filled with some very gross, very dubious-looking ingredients - atop which sat a pair of still-functioning eyeballs, animatedly darting back and forth - on her hip, stood Annika. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt to the huntress when she’s a bear: you’re doing great sweetie :)  
> When she’s back to being a human: seen at (insert time here)


	72. Chapter 72

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two days in a row, ayyyy! Sorry to bombard u with my words I’ve got a bunch of work to get done before a road trip this weekend so I wanted to post before I got started (procrastinator high five !!!) also I had like an out of body experience writing the end of this and forgot how humans speak to each other for a hot sec so I hope that’s not noticeable hahaha

“Annika!” Jaskier exclaimed excitedly, forgetting he was in Geralt’s body as he bounded over and snatched her up in a massive, crushing hug. She’d spent the better part of half a year studying under Yen, and it had been months since they’d seen each other.  
  
She immediately went to arms, however, dropping her basket and squirming about in his steely grip like a fish caught on a line.  
  
“Hey - _hey_! Paws off!” She managed to pry herself free, spluttering and gasping for air. Magic crackled, quite erratically, at her fingertips. “Fuck you, Geralt! I nearly blew your head off!”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened and he put his hands up in mock surrender. “Wait, Annika, I’m sorry! I’m not - _mercy_ \- ”  
  
She wasn’t listening - instead, she continued ranting and raving as she aggressively brushed out the wrinkles in her pants before scooping the unusual selection of groceries back into their basket.  
  
“What’s gotten into you? I detest hugs. I only put up with your little beloved’s because he gets insufferably sad-eyed and mopey when I deny him. Really, you of all people should...understand...” Vivid green eyes narrowed, noticing something off about his appearance. “Are you drunk? Why is your face doing that? You look...”  
  
She trailed off, tearing her gaze from Jaskier’s childish pout to get a look at Geralt, who was lurking by his shoulder.  
  
Though he was in the bard’s body, there were some pretty glaring errors. His brown hair was unkempt and thrown up in a disastrous ponytail, the tie to which slipped out and fell gracelessly to the floor as she watched. His fringe flopped back into his face, which was a mask of irritation. His fancy little doublet was slung over his shoulder, revealing an uncharacteristically bland tunic beneath. Oh, and the most glaring issue of all - the distinct lack of a lute on his body.  
  
The strap of the instrument was actually secured across the _Witcher’s_ broad chest. He, too, looked odd. Never mind the fact that she had never seen Geralt make such a _pathetic_ face - lower lip jutting out, eyes wide as a puppy’s. Silver hair was pulled back in a neat fishtail plait, decorated with delicate wildflowers; a far cry from the chaotic, tangled updos he usually sported.  
  
“Wait - what is this? What’s going on?” She thrust an accusing finger at the men. “Are you _both_ drunk?”  
  
“Nice to see you, Annika.” Geralt offered a wry, disingenuous smile. “And fuck you, too.”  
  
“Hang on - _Geralt_?” It was almost impressive how fast she caught on, though that really only served as a testament to how strangely they acted within each other’s bodies. “So, that puts twinkle toes in...”  
  
“Yes, yes. I’m in here.” Jaskier’s pout morphed into a scowl. “I _told_ you how I feel about that nickname, Annika. Why do you insist on hurting my feelings?”  
  
“Because you make it too easy. Can we stay on task, here? What the fuck happened? Or...is this your idea of a funny joke?”  
  
The bard puffed out his cheeks and yes, there it was. She immediately recognized _that_ simpering, goofy expression. Her theory that they were playing some elaborate trick on her lost all credibility at the sight of it.  
  
“Are you referring to this?” Jaskier nonchalantly flexed the chiseled muscles of the Witcher’s bicep. “Clean eating, lots of protein. Some exercise here and there.”  
  
Annika snorted, nearly spraining her eyes with how hard she rolled them. “What _really_ happened? You two stink, like rotten eggs, or...”  
  
“Sulphur.” Geralt supplied.  
  
“Sulphur...as in, _demons_? Oh, this is too good. Yennefer is going to have an absolute _field_ day.” At that, she started cackling. Real, full-belly laughter that nearly caused her to drop her basket again. Both men managed the same withering glare as she wiped a tear of mirth from the corner of her eye. “She’s left you unsupervised for - what, _three_ days? Gods, I can’t even look at you. _Ridiculous_ \- ”  
  
Renewed laughter at seeing their matching expressions stole her breath away. Half an hour of much of the same found the trio seated inside a tavern, drinking hard liquor while Annika - still horribly amused by the whole thing - probed them about the specifics of the curse. They asked after Yen, who had apparently gone looking for them the day before.  
  
The basket was taking up the seat next to Jaskier and every so often he found himself gazing directly into those animated eyeballs. Needless to say, it wasn’t long before he was practically sitting on Geralt’s lap, having edged his seat away inch by inch as they spoke.  
  
“Before we continue this little interrogation, can I ask about the...er, eyeballs?”  
  
Annika took a sip from her drink, face straight as could be. “No.”  
  
“But they’re _staring_ at me.” Jaskier whined, ignoring Geralt’s grunts of protest as he drew closer still. What might have been cute in his own body just ended up looking comical in the Witcher’s, like a large predator shying away from a tiny mouse. “What are they for? And why do you have them?”  
  
“Thought they’d look good above my fireplace.”  
  
“Why do I have a hard time believing that?”  
  
“Maybe I’m planning on using them to double curse you.” Her lips parted in a toothy grin at his scandalized gasp. “Besides, I’ll not take judgement _or_ criticism from the man squatting inside his lover’s body like a fat toad.”  
  
“Squatting? _Fat_?” Jaskier slammed his mug down on the table. “Do you think I _want_ to be in here? I can smell everything, Annika. _Everything_. Right now, a gentleman is relieving himself just outside. You know how I know that?” He tapped the tip of his nose, scowling at her. “ _This_ bloody thing. And I can hear it, too. Splitter, splatter, splitter, spla - ”  
  
“Well, what do you expect of men? Foul creatures.” Annika crinkled her nose, ignoring Jaskier’s affronted cry of ‘but _I’m_ a man!’ and turning to Geralt. “You’re awfully tight-lipped. How are you feeling about all this?”  
  
He glanced pointedly at the bard, crossing his arms over his chest. “Jaskier has banned me from speaking to anyone.”  
  
“Not _Annika_!” Jaskier threw his hands up in exasperation, forgetting how much larger they were than his own and accidentally knocking the tray straight out of the arms of a passing barmaid. After apologizing profusely - ignoring the witch’s cackling - and helping her clean up, he turned back to Geralt, voice lowering to a flustered hiss. “How dramatic can you be? I simply said you should refrain from, you know, picking _fights_? Starting brawls? Being a general _menace_?”  
  
Annika frowned. “Thought that was your job, bard. Did you switch annoying personality traits as well?”  
  
“Oh, we’re back to ‘bard,’ now? Anyway, that’s what we’ve been trying to figure out. Something broke Geralt and now he’s either trying to bed me with the fervor of a dog in heat or trying to brutalize elderly innkeepers. Oh, and the headaches. We both get them, but his are something else.”  
  
“Thanks for the lovely mental images.” Despite her words, and for the first time since finding them in such a sorry state, Annika’s face lost all its wicked amusement. She turned to Geralt. “Give me your hand.”  
  
“Why?”  
  
“Just do it. Gods, you really are perfect for each other, you know? Two pieces of work in a pod.”  
  
With an annoyed grunt, he complied. She flipped his hand over, resting the tips of her spindly fingers upon the center of his palm and closing her eyes.  
  
Jaskier leaned over the table, peering curiously at their entwined hands. “What are you doing? What is that?” When he received no answer, he added, “ _Hello_?”  
  
One emerald cracked open to glare at him. “I _will_ spell your mouth shut if you don’t stop.”  
  
“I see Yen hasn’t taught you any _manners_ \- ”  
  
As soon as he had reopened his mouth, Annika - with a devilish smirk - wordlessly snapped the fingers of her other hand.  
  
Cursing, because he knew better than to take her threats lightly, the bard braced himself for the spell’s impact - nothing could prepare him for the sudden burst of white-hot agony that erupted behind his eyes, however. They abruptly slammed shut, and with a surprised yelp he tumbled out of his chair, landing in a heavy heap on the grimy floor.  
  
“Jaskier!” Geralt tore his hand away, instantly knocking his own chair over in his efforts to reach the other’s side as quickly as possible. The bard had curled in on himself, broad fingers digging into his closed eyelids and obscuring most of his face from view. “What the _fuck_ , Annika? What did you do?”  
  
Everyone in the tavern had stopped what they were doing to watch the scene with intrusive curiosity. Annika looked stunned, glancing at her fingertips uncertainly. “That’s not - it wasn’t supposed to _hurt_ him, I swear, I only cast a simple - ”  
  
She was interrupted by Jaskier, who let out another panicked cry that broke off into a sob. There was a sinister sizzling noise that had filled the now-silent tavern.  
  
“It hurts,” Jaskier’s raw fear managed to make even the Witcher’s gruff voice crack painfully, which had him sounding decades younger, “it _hurts_ \- Geralt, make it _stop_ \- ”  
  
“I’m trying. Please, Jaskier.” He hated how desperate he sounded. “I can’t help if you don’t show me.”  
  
Geralt was working on prying his hands from his eyes, cursing his weak fingers. He felt helpless. Annika was beside him, then, moving to grab Jaskier’s wrists.  
  
“ _Don’t touch him_!” Geralt barked suddenly, causing her to freeze in place, hands hovering inches from the bard’s writhing form. Noticing they had an audience, he lowered his voice. “The curse. Don’t touch him.”  
  
“It’s _contagious_? But I’ve already touched both of you - “  
  
“Not like this,” he hissed, grunting when Jaskier’s leg flailed and caught him in the side - he tried hooking his own leg around it to hold it fast, but the other started up as soon as he did, “not while you’re inflicting pain. I - stop _kicking_ , Jaskier - I need to know exactly what spell you used.”  
  
“A simple silencing spell. Would’ve sealed his trap for about half an hour. I’ve cast it dozens of times, never had a problem - ”  
  
“Until now.”  
  
“ _Obviously_.”  
  
Suddenly, Jaskier’s violent thrashing came to a halt, his cries dissolving into broken whimpers. Both Geralt and Annika immediately stopped their arguing, watching with bated breath as the bard’s body sagged, hands slowly coming away from his face.  
  
When they saw the damage that had been done, both shared a breathless, “ _shit_.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes were welded shut. The skin on and around them was raw and bright red, almost as if it had been burned. His ragged panting was the only thing that cut through the tense silence that had fallen over them. It took Geralt a moment to find his voice, and when he spoke it was hoarse, his mouth and throat having gone dry.  
  
“Jaskier.” He cautiously brushed back a strand of silver hair that had fallen into the other’s face. “ _Jaskier_. Talk to me. Tell me what hurts.”  
  
“ _Ugh_ \- Geralt? Bloody hell, where - what’s happened?” His voice raised a few decibels when he tried opening his eyes and found he could not. “Ow, why - why can’t I open my eyes?”  
  
“Damn it.” Annika sucked in a sharp breath. A concerned barmaid approached to ask if they needed help, but immediately backtracked when the witch shot her a devastating glare. “We need to get him to Yennefer. She said she’d be back tonight if she couldn’t find you.”  
  
“ _Guys_? What’s happening to me?” Jaskier pushed himself up off the floor but immediately pitched sideways, Geralt catching him before he could fall back over. “N-not to, er, beat a dead horse here but I can’t open my eyes, nobody’s telling me what’s going on, and I’m starting to freak out, just a little bit - ”  
  
“Breathe. You’re going to be fine” As he slung the bard’s arm over his shoulder and helped him to his feet, he realized those placations were as much for himself as they were for the other man. “Yen will fix it. You’ll be okay.”  
  
“Yen will fix _what_?”  
  
“Just a spell gone wrong. That’s all.”  
  
“But why can’t I _see_ \- ”  
  
Annika, face a bit paler than usual, gathered their things as quickly as she could. Within minutes, they were out of the tavern, Geralt supporting Jaskier and talking him through his panic as the witch brought them through an alleyway shortcut to Yen’s.

__

__

♜ ♖

The sorceress’s new chateau was massive, with a pristine exterior that included iron-and-marble gates, a fountain, and a few well-dressed guards.  
  
It was seated at the center of the financial district, but once the trio made it past the gates, it no longer felt like they were smack dab in the middle of a bustling city.  
  
Despite Annika’s irritated demands, the butler firmly instructed them to wait for Yennefer in the lobby. Apparently, she had arrived not long ago - and in a rather terrible mood.  
  
“Do you see the state of these two, Harold?” The witch had her hands on her hips, having abruptly dropped all of their belongings in a messy pile on a black, velveteen bench. “Now’s not the time for your stupid house rules!”  
  
He glanced pointedly down at her feet, which were bare and very dirty, before letting out a weary sigh. It seemed he was used to her antics. “No shoes today, Madam Annika?”  
  
“ _No_. No shoes today. What are you going to do about it?”  
  
“Nothing, Madam Annika. I’m only pleased you saw fit to wear pants this time. Must be a special occasion.”  
  
“Oh, let it _go_ , Harold! That tunic was practically a dress. And so _what_ if I enjoy feeling the cool breeze on my - ”  
  
From where he was leaning heavily against the wall, Jaskier snorted. They had wrapped a piece of cloth about his eyes after he complained about the sun being too bright. Neither had the heart to tell him that the sun had long since set.  
  
Geralt was glued to his side, watching him like a hawk. His thoughts were going a mile a minute, thinking of all the horrible possibilities. What if it was permanent? What if he never opened his eyes again? There was too much up in the air, too much uncertainty. The voice in his head selfishly reminding him that those were his own eyes beneath that blindfold was drowned out by the fresh memory of Jaskier’s screams.  
  
The Witcher also knew, deep down, that Annika was not responsible. She was a natural talent, capable of complex spells even before receiving a proper education. It _had_ to have something to do with the curse. Perhaps the opposing magics had interacted badly. Unfortunately, that was the best case scenario - and also highly unusual.  
  
Considering everything that had happened thus far, all the strange occurrences, he couldn’t write off the idea that maybe, just maybe, the curse had done something to magic itself.  
  
“It’s about bloody time. You two have really done it now.”  
  
Yen’s sharp, commanding voice yanked Geralt out of his reverie. He hadn’t even heard the telltale click of her heels coming down the hall. When he looked up, he was taken aback by the sight of her.  
  
She was favoring her left leg, a faded bruise marring the smooth skin above her left cheekbone. Though she remained as striking and ethereally beautiful as ever, something about her seemed off. She looked tired. Worn down.  
  
“ _Lovely_. Tell me, how are we, as a group, this dysfunctional?” Jaskier piped up at Geralt’s shoulder, voice dripping with sarcasm. “Can any of us manage a proper greeting?”  
  
“No. I’ve been to hell and back searching for your sorry arses. Do you know what you’ve done? You - ” Yen paused, noticing his blindfold. “What on earth happened, Geralt?”  
  
“Who are you talking to? Are you looking at - is she looking at me?” He floundered, receiving no help from his shell-shocked companions. “Because, er - I’m not Geralt.”  
  
“You - come again? Why are you talking like that?” She frowned, glancing between the other two. “Is he drunk?”  
  
“Unfortunately not the case.” Annika, who had stopped bickering with the butler and adopted a sullen, moody expression.  
  
“Why does everyone assume we’re drunk? Is that who we are, as a couple? The _drunk_ pair?”  
  
Forgetting his injury, Jaskier started tugging at the blindfold so he could look at Yen while he spoke. Geralt quickly, gently, removed his hand, keeping it fastened at his side.  
  
“Leave it, Jaskier. Too bright in here.” That was spoken in a soft, tender murmur, but when he turned back to Yen, his tone grew deadly serious. “Take us to your study. You need to look at his eyes. Now.”  
  
”Not before you tell me what’s going on.”  
  
“ _Yen_.”  
  
She quirked a brow. “ _Geralt_.”  
  
It was a bold assumption on her part, but the familiarly intense look in those clear blue eyes told her all she needed to know. They glared at each other for a long moment until, finally, Geralt groaned and broke their impromptu staring contest. He knew she wouldn’t relent until he gave her a straight answer, and the sooner they figured out what had happened to Jaskier’s eyes, the better.  
  
“Fine. You need to hear me say it? As you just fucking guessed, I’m...I, uh...” he trailed off, searching for the right words to describe their current situation - there were none, so he decided to voice the most glaringly obvious issue, “we switched bodies.”


	73. Chapter 73

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ok ik they bathe like soooo much in this fic but I guess it’s basically become their personal little save point where they have their private chats and discuss the day??? Idk man, this fic has taken on a life of its own
> 
> Note: I briefly forgot the curse is contagious but I fixed it SORRY!!!!!!!! Lots banging around in this noggin

Yen stared at the pair for a long moment before tilting her head left and right, releasing a sigh when she heard a soft crack. “I see.”  
  
“Er...” Jaskier, gripping the wall, started edging closer to the sound of her voice. Geralt’s hand hovered nearby, ready to snatch him up if he took a wrong step. “Yennefer? Are you feeling all right? It’s just - though I admire your ability to roll with the punches, I did expect a _little_ more of a reaction from you. More disappointment, for starters. Maybe some shouting.”  
  
“In due time, Jaskier. It’s been a long day. Your...current situation does explain things, though.”  
  
Geralt narrowed his eyes, attention drawn away from Jaskier, who continued creeping along the wall like an earthworm. “What things?”  
  
“This, for starters.” As she spoke, Yen raised a hand and murmured a few words in Elder. Moments later, a portal appeared on the wall - Geralt’s entire body tensed when he peered inside and saw shimmering, blurry glimpses of its destination. “I don’t have to tell you where that goes, do I?”  
  
“Close it.” The Witcher managed to make Jaskier’s voice harsh and demanding. “Now.”  
  
“Always a sign of some sinister magic at play. This started happening on my way back from searching for _you_. Do you have any idea how troublesome it was to - ”  
  
“ _Yen_.” The portal pulsed, some very dark, very viscous tendrils of energy oozing out and breaching pristine marble walls. “If you don’t close that fucking thing - ”  
  
“Hush, Geralt.” She flicked her wrist, effectively shutting it. “You don’t think I know what I’m doing?”  
  
“I think you’re announcing our exact location to every demon, hellion, and abyssal horror in there.”  
  
“Sorry, _what_? What was that about demons?” Oddly enough, Jaskier’s speech carried far less confidence without his sight, voice wavering in the tense, heavy silence. “Could you at least try to keep me in the loop, here? Maybe describe what’s happening, play by play?”  
  
Annika, who had been watching the scene with an intense, calculating expression, was the first to throw the bumbling bard a bone.  
  
“Miss Priss just conjured a portal to another dimension. She’s looking all smug and holier-than-thou. Your paramour, on the other hand, is unamused. His little rat face is scrunched, like he’s got something wedged fa-a-ar up his arse. Perhaps a stick. Really, it’s got to be all the way up in there - he’s glaring at me now, with those beady eyes, and - ”  
  
“Okay, _okay_! Have you forgotten that’s _my_ face you’re describing?” Jaskier had halted his cautious journey towards the sorceress’s voice and was now very nonchalantly heading back towards Geralt’s. “Anyway, on second thoughts, perhaps it’s best I remain in the dark this time. Had enough of demons to last a bloody lifetime, and - ah - _ahh_!”  
  
While he was was busy speaking and Geralt was busy seething, the bard lost his footing when he went to grab onto the other’s shoulder and missed by several inches.  
  
Though he didn’t currently possess his quick reflexes or strength, Geralt managed to drop to his knees and catch him about the chest just in time. Well, mostly. It would have been an impressive save if not for Annika instinctively raising a hand, _presumably_ to cast some sort of helpful spell. Immediately, Geralt dropped Jaskier in lieu of shouting for her to stop, using his body to interrupt the trajectory of any volatile magical missiles.  
  
Jaskier’s forehead smacked painfully on the tile floor. He poked his head up, shooting a harsh look at the wall and groaning, “Geralt, you bastard, _why_?”  
  
Annika’s eyes had gone wide, glued to the tips of her fingers. Her face was as white as a sheet. A bit of energy crackled and spluttered to life before fading, and she and Geralt shared a relieved breath. “Oh, thank _fuck_. I - I’m sorry, I’ve been practicing psychokinesis. It just came naturally - ”  
  
She was interrupted by the impatient tapping of Yen’s kitten heel.  
  
“Right. An observation, if you’ll indulge me. His lack of sight is your doing, Annika - correct? A spell gone awry?” The guilty nod that followed told her all she needed to know. “ _Wonderful_. All chaos is affected, then.” It sounded like she was scolding a pair of schoolchildren, which was in stark contrast to the peculiar tenderness she displayed as she approached Jaskier, moving to help him to his feet but stopping when Geralt warned her of the infectious nature of their curse. “My study. Now. I’ll need the full story at once. Things are _far_ worse than I thought.”  
  
The bard released a miserable moan, burying his head into Geralt’s shoulder. “But we’re _exhausted_ \- ”  
  
“Not you, dear.” That perked him up a bit. “I’ll set you up on the day bed with some wine while the rest of us have a chat. How does that sound? A nice, dry red?”  
  
“Oh, that sounds _perfect_ , I’m - _hang on_. What is this? Why are you being so nice to me?” She had been speaking to him in a very ‘your pet went to live on a farm’ sort of way, and as he was shepherded towards the study, he started to panic. It seemed the rest of his companions had silently put the pieces together and come to a grim realization. “ _Hello_? Wh-why is she being so nice? Gods, am I dying?”  
  
That blasted silence fell upon them again until finally, Geralt - who had been conveniently preoccupied by a loose thread on the hem of his sleeve - cleared his throat.  
  
“You’re not dying, Jaskier.” He spoke awkwardly, laboriously, as though the words wanted to remain on his tongue and he had to forcibly evict them. “Without magic she can’t fix my - can’t fix your eyes.”

♜ ♖

Once Jaskier was situated on the velvet day bed, an inscrutable expression on his face and a large glass of sympathy wine clutched in a white-knuckled fist, the other three sat around him and went about piecing the facts together.  
  
Geralt recounted the last three days, informing the women of every switch, every strange occurrence - everything.  
  
About halfway through, Yen interjected to explain that she had an encounter with the masked mercenaries herself - she had portaled back from the coast, making a quick stop to check on Ciri at Kaer Morhen, when her magic went on the fritz. Forced to travel by horse, she was ambushed by a pack of them less than two miles from the Witchers’ keep.  
  
“They asked about you. Asked about Cirilla, too.” When Geralt’s shoulders tensed, she offered a fond, reassuring smile. “Settle down. I took care of them, and Vesemir’s put the keep on high alert with you ‘missing.’”  
  
“Damn it.” A pause, where he looked quite awkward. “You all right?”  
  
The sorceress looked surprised at that, but brushed it off quickly. “Of course, Geralt. Thankfully I had a few potions in my pack, in case I found you two in a bad state.”  
  
“As usual.” Annika, perched on the arm of Jaskier’s day bed. She was hovering close to him, sneaking concerned glances when she thought no one was looking.  
  
“Yeah, yeah. Low-hanging fruit, Annika.” Jaskier muttered, waving his hand in Geralt’s general direction. “Don’t forget to tell them about _Fart_.”  
  
Geralt gave him a _look_ \- because he knew the other man knew the monster’s name, and was purposely being unhelpful - but decided that, in light of recent developments, it was best to just let it go. Though Jaskier pouted frequently, he never could hold the facade for very long.  
  
Annika snorted. “What kind of name is that? I swear, you always have the _lamest_ , bottom-of-the-barrel idiots after you. Excluding me, of course.”  
  
“It’s Vrart. And he’s not ‘bottom-of-the-barrel.’ He’s responsible for the curse. A powerful shapeshifter.” Geralt frowned, voicing a thought that had been eating at him since the moment they first encountered the shifter. “I don’t think he’s from our world.”  
  
Yen’s violet eyes widened, before narrowing dangerously. “I’m afraid that’s the worst news yet. If what you’re saying is true, he’s the reason why our spells are backfiring.”  
  
“How?”  
  
“Whatever foreign magic he’s carelessly spewing into the world could be unbalancing...well, everything. Chaos itself, for starters. If things are escalating - which they clearly are - it’s because of him. What kind of creature did you say he was again? A shifter?”  
  
“Not like any we’ve seen. No regard for his human form. I think he showed his true self to me while I was unconscious, but...” Geralt frowned, trying to recall the small snippets he had seen in the fractured moonlight. “I can’t remember. Why the fuck can’t I remember?”  
  
“Spell.” Annika offered, tapping her forehead with a spindly index finger. “You’re human now. Easier to get in that pea head.”  
  
“ _Pea_ head?” Jaskier shot up in his seat, nearly knocking her off. “You’re two for two, Annika. I still haven’t forgotten ‘rat face.’”  
  
“I don’t know what you’re on about. That was a compliment.” She let out a dreamy sigh as she recalled some distant memory. “Back home, some of my best friends were rats.”  
  
“Of _course_ they were. Blasted cave witch.”  
  
The fond look on her face vanished and she squinted at Jaskier, who had slumped back into the pillows. He was still wearing his makeshift blindfold as they had learned that, though he could not see, he was incredibly sensitive to any sort of light. The only source of it they currently had in the study was a single candle; it flickered on a small table at the center of their circle, casting long shadows on the walls.  
  
“What I’m wondering is why all the fuss for this body? You’re not _that_ special, are you?” The witch cocked her head to the side, and even without his sight Jaskier found himself squirming beneath the intensity of her attention. “To be fair, I’ve never seen inside a Witcher before. Always been curious to know how things work in there.”  
  
“Why, oh _why_ , does it sound like you’re about to cut me open and find out?”  
  
“Well, if you’re offering - ”  
  
” _No_.” Geralt put an end to their little verbal scuffle - and that idea as a whole - swiftly and firmly. “Can we stay on fucking task?”  
  
Yen let out a heavy sigh, moving to cross her legs and hissing when she remembered the healing injury marring her thigh. “We could spend all night theorizing, but it’s useless without actual facts. I don’t know about you, but I’m knackered. In need of several baths. Let’s turn in - I’ll double security, put you up in my guest suite for the night, and we’ll all do some proper research in the morning. Fair?”  
  
“More than. I, uh...” Cornflower blue eyes found hers. “I’m sorry to get you caught up in all this. Thank you, Yen.”  
  
Once again, the Witcher caught her by surprise. Not just the fact that he thanked her (though that phrase certainly didn’t frequent his vocabulary, either) but the way he said it. The subtle inflections of sincerity and warmth sat far more comfortably than usual on his tongue.  
  
She gave him - and Jaskier, who was irritatedly batting at Annika while she fiddled with his blindfold - a peculiar look before nodding curtly and guiding the wayward duo to their new quarters. 

♜ ♖

“Jaskier, let me - ”  
  
“Sod - _mrff_!”  
  
Geralt flinched at the other man’s tone, taking a step back as a brawny arm flailed and nearly smacked him in the jaw. They were standing in the bathroom beside a freshly drawn bath, and Jaskier was struggling to undress himself. It had started out all right, his stubborn determination endearing at first, but once he reached the Witcher’s tunic - and the complicated leather straps that would have normally kept his swords in place - he ran into some trouble.  
  
Currently, he had the thing halfway over his head. One strap had made its way into his mouth, somehow, while the other had gotten caught up in the loose ties hanging off the front of his shirt.  
  
With great difficulty, Geralt drew back and seated himself upon the edge of the tub. Jaskier hadn’t reacted with nearly as much anger when he lost the use of his arm, which had the Witcher suspecting that losing his sight was only part of the reason behind his agitation.  
  
It wasn’t until a distinctive snap cut through the bard’s grunts and curses, followed by a scattering of wildflowers as the handmade bracelet fell to pieces, that his broad shoulders sagged.  
  
“Bollocks. Just...go on, then.”  
  
His voice was muffled and small, and Geralt forced himself to walk, rather than run, to his side. With nimble fingers he undid the clasps and freed Jaskier from his little self-imposed prison, slipping the tunic fully over his head and letting it fall to the floor between them.  
  
The blindfold had come undone at some point and he almost regretted removing the shirt because it brought him horribly close to the absolutely _miserable_ , defeated expression on the other man’s face.  
  
He used his thumb and forefinger to tilt the strong chin of it up, grimacing as the white votive flickering beside the tub illuminated badly burned skin, still raw and tender, likely painful but at least partially soothed by the ointment Annika had passed off to them before turning in. At this angle, he could see Jaskier’s eyes darting anxiously back and forth beneath magically-sealed lids.  
  
“It’s likely the damage isn’t permanent.”  
  
“And what if it _is_?”  
  
“Well...” Without his permission, a small smile tugged at the corner of Geralt’s lips as he tapped the tip of the other’s nose. “Guess we’ll just have to rely on your favorite of my heightened senses.”  
  
The bard groaned, dropping his head once more and nestling his face in the other’s chest. “If you’re cracking jokes, we’re in _really_ bad shape.”  
  
“Come on. Bath time.” Geralt let his hand slide down until it was resting on Jaskier’s hip, hooking his finger in a belt loop and using that connection to draw him closer. “You smell worse than I do after a long journey.”  
  
“But I _am_ you after a long journey!”  
  
“Oh.” A soft chuckle. “Right.”  
  
He removed the rest of his and Jaskier’s clothes with great care, letting each article drop to their feet until they were naked and two small mountains of cloth and leather covered the tiles.  
  
The whole thing felt incredibly intimate, but also very strange. _Charged_ , but a bit awkward. It was almost reminiscent of the time he had helped Jaskier undress and bathe back in Emmi’s shack.  
  
He wordlessly took the bard’s hand and guided him into the bath, easing him down into pleasantly tepid water. The air was still uncharacteristically humid and while he knew Jaskier preferred hot baths, he could tell he appreciated the change by the soft, relieved sigh it produced.  
  
Geralt grabbed the bucket and a dark, amber bottle of what looked like liquid soap before slipping into the water with a small splash.  
  
The tub wasn’t very large and they sat facing each other on either end, all tangled legs and limbs beneath the water’s surface. Jaskier still had that awful look on his face, silver brows knitted together in deep thought. Geralt could only guess what was going through his mind, and so he did.  
  
“Jaskier, it’s not your - ”  
  
“Yes, Geralt, it _is_.” Jaskier snapped, popping his head up. “It is absolutely my fault. My _one_ job was to keep your body safe.”  
  
“You couldn’t have known.”  
  
“But I _should_ have - I mean, even if magic wasn’t currently fucked six ways from Sunday, I should’ve known not to...” Jaskier’s voice petered off, and he had to swallow through a thick lump in his throat before speaking again. “ _My_ carelessness cost you your sight. Possibly forever.”  
  
“Not forever. Yen said - ”  
  
“Yes, I know what Yen said. She also said _maybe_ far too many times for my liking. I - ”  
  
“Enough, Jaskier.” Geralt couldn’t take it any longer. He couldn’t find the right words, might never find them if it turned out to be permanent. What he could offer was temporary relief, consolation in the form of touch. He reached across the water, snatching the other’s wrist and tugging him forward. “Come here.”  
  
After a moment’s resistance, Jaskier sighed and allowed himself to be adjusted until he was sitting with his back to the other man, Geralt’s legs resting on either side of his own.  
  
Once they were settled, Geralt used his teeth to unstop the bottle, spitting the cork out into the water with a soft _splick_.  
  
Jaskier crinkled his nose as the scent of bergamot and vanilla flooded his senses. “What is that?”  
  
“Soap. I’m going to bathe you.”  
  
“Ah.” If Jaskier could blush, he thought he certainly would. Instead, he let out a nervous laugh. “All right. Do your worst.”  
  
Pouring some into his palms, Geralt gently massaged the elixir into Jaskier’s scalp, working it through long, silver locks. He used his blunt fingernails to rake long lines up from the bard’s neck, earning a pleased little hum. Eventually he moved on to broad shoulders, lathering them with soap and scrubbing the dirt away while also lightly massaging out the knots and aches from old wounds. He knew which ones tended to bother him after a long day, and as Jaskier’s hums evolved into lower, breathier sounds, he knew he was hitting all the right spots.  
  
“Geralt?”  
  
“Hm?”  
  
Jaskier squirmed. “Not a complaint, necessarily, but...is that what I think it is?”  
  
“What?”  
  
Gods. He was either playing dumb - unlikely - or had no idea what was currently transpiring between them in the water. The bard pointedly wiggled his hips, drawing a surprised groan from the other man. “Yes, _that_.”  
  
“What...” Geralt directed his confused frown downwards, noticing it for the first time. How embarrassing. An infuriating blush colored his cheeks, the heat of it spreading all the way to his ears and chest. “This again? Your body is far too excitable.”  
  
“Well, _yeah_ , I’ll give you that, but - it’s just - it’s a bit weird, you know, having my own - er - _weapon_ drawn on me, so to speak. Again, _not_ a complaint - ”  
  
“Fuck. Sorry. I, uh...I’ll get out - ”  
  
As he went to move, however, Jaskier floundered, vigorously shaking his head. “Nono, _no_ , please don’t. And please, _please_ keep doing that lovely thing with your hands.”  
  
The blush persisted, and the Witcher found there was absolutely no part of himself that wanted to leave the tub in that moment. As his hands traveled down, reaching Jaskier’s lower back, the bard slowly realized his curiosity was also irredeemably piqued. Though it was his own lithe frame currently plastered to his back - and, as previously pointed out, his own _knob_ \- he found it adorable (and oddly enticing) how flustered Geralt got when faced with its apparent ‘excitability.’  
  
He couldn’t see, either, which was probably part of what had him throwing caution to the wind and tilting his head all the way back, catching the other man’s lips with his own. He had to shimmy his bulky frame down a bit to get the proper angle, earning another delectable, startled grunt.  
  
The bard’s name was on Geralt’s tongue in the form of a question but he swallowed it, instinctively relaxing into the upside-down kiss, though he had to redirect Jaskier’s hungry, urgent mouth as it had landed a bit off the mark, closer to his chin.  
  
They remained like that for some time, silence only broken by small splashes as the water lapped up and over the sides of the tub. Jaskier clumsily swiveled around to meet Geralt’s mouth properly, a calloused hand grasping at his hip and closing the small breath of space that existed between them.  
  
The candle slowly burned out and the only light that remained was the soft, milky glow of the moon peeking through the tinted-glass window above their heads. Despite being trapped in each other’s bodies, in that darkness things felt right. Different and quite strange, certainly, but right. There was a deeper connection that moved past the physical and Geralt felt like he was touching his lover, not himself.  
  
They were only kissing, moving languidly against each other, but Geralt became aware of a fire building in his belly, urging him to take more. Eventually, remembering Jaskier’s earlier decree that they not sleep together, he broke contact with immeasurable difficulty. The bard chased after him, making a frustrated little sound when Geralt placed a finger on his lips to hold him back.  
  
“If we’re going to do this, we need to talk about it first. Make sure it’s what we both want.”  
  
Jaskier let out a low, rasping whine. As soon as Geralt spoke in his own voice, the spell was broken. “Why’d you have to go and remind me?”  
  
The Witcher snorted, extracting his limbs from the other’s. “It’s a complex situation, and you’re vulnerable. I don’t want to take advantage.”  
  
“I’m not _vulnerable_.”  
  
Geralt stepped out of the tub, letting the excess water drip freely off his body before he turned back to the other man. There was an affectionate smirk on his face that Jaskier could not see. “Not at all?”  
  
“Oh, all right. A teensy bit vulnerable. You try losing your body _and_ your sight all in the same day.” Jaskier groped around for the edge of the tub, relishing in the feel of Geralt’s cool hands about his shoulders as they helped him navigate his way out. “But that’s besides the point. If our impassioned _necking_ no longer switches us back, perhaps we need to kick it up a notch. You know, for research. And, er...science.”  
  
“‘Science’ again, Jaskier?”  
  
The bard shook out his silver mane like a shaggy dog, a few strands accidentally smacking Geralt in the face. “You said so yourself - you’re more clear-headed than you’ve been since all this started, right? And I feel just fine. Better when you’re under me, but...you know, fine. I do understand your hesitation, though, and respect your decision either way.” A pause. “I _will_ need you to spoon me to sleep if the answer is no.”  
  
He made a convincing argument, and Geralt realized with increasing relief that _he_ had been the one to break their kiss. If he could do that - which he could not do before - who was to say things hadn’t gone back to normal? They were safely tucked away in Yen’s chateau. He wasn’t picking fights or experiencing any overwhelming emotions. If he wanted to step away, to deny Jaskier and simply go to bed, he could.  
  
Consequently, he did none of that. They dried off and fell into bed together, tried discussing matters further but found they couldn’t keep their hands off each other. In the pitch darkness, as he climbed atop Jaskier - a litany of absolute filth spilling from his lips - Geralt decided it was his turn to throw caution to the wind. He was only human, after all.  
  
At some point - more precisely, at the height of their late-night activities - they did switch back, but it was seamless and gentle, so neither paid it any mind.  
  
After they had both fallen asleep, their reflection in the mirror at the other side of the room changed. On Geralt’s face, a wicked grin had formed. The sheets had been kicked off the bed long ago, due to the heat, and he was leering down at Jaskier’s exposed, sleeping body. In contrast, outside of the mirror, Geralt was arsed out, lulled into a dreamless, blissful sleep. Never mind the fact that his eyes _couldn’t_ open, even if they wanted to.  
  
“ _Clear-headed_? You gullible fool.” Still grinning, his reflection let out a giggle that bounced hollowly off the walls but roused neither man. “Though it would’ve been nice and easy to snatch your body without you in it, I think I’ll have more fun this way. I do so love to break nice things. Like porcelain pots.” Another playful giggle. “And strong minds.”  
  
For the rest of the night, his reflection maintained that giddy smile, eyes wide open and staring up at the ceiling like someone too excited for the day ahead to fall asleep. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Geralt: I’m only human after all  
> Me: nonono, you’re LITERALLY not


	74. Chapter 74

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ayy! I'm so sorry for the delay on this one <3 I decided to start school early and got a new job so things have been a little hectic, but never fear! I haven't forgotten you or this fic, sometimes life just happens! I've gotten back into a nice rhythm again, and the break actually helped me flesh out the plot a bit more because it allowed me to think of things I might not have if I posted a month or two earlier, hehe!
> 
> Anyway, thank you so much for your patience, I hope this update finds you well <3 I have a few zoom meetings todaaAay but I'm going to come back in a little and read/reply to all the lovely comments I missed in my absence, they always make me so incredibly happy :) this chapter is kind of long, I melded and modified two that I wrote before and it's a little drabble-y in some parts because I wanted to get back in the swing of things with dialogue and stuff, so it may make your eyes bleed a teeny bit ~

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note but I crack up every time I hear tiktoks with the song that’s like “I’ll live inside you for~eever~” because I’m immediately like Vrart is that you?? Also I FOUND the song (it’s from Jekyll & Hyde, accurate for what I have in store for this arc tbh) and it kind of slaps

That morning, Jaskier awoke to the familiar weight of Geralt’s bare arm and leg splayed across his chest, the comforting warmth of his breath tickling his cheek. Though they were naked, it was still far too hot and unseasonably muggy for such behavior – both men were coated in a light sheen of sweat, the sheets kicked off and tangled haphazardly around their ankles – but he just couldn’t bring himself to shove the big lug away just yet.  
  
Instead, he shifted very cautiously until he was looking directly at the other man’s face. It was usually the other way around, with Jaskier waking to find Geralt’s golden eyes studying him contemplatively. A small triumph that he had been the first to wake, had the opportunity to see the serene look on his lover’s face as he slept.  
  
Geralt always looked younger with the muscles of his face relaxed in such a way, without the near-permanent furrowed brow and narrowed eyes. A few wispy strands of silver hair had escaped from his plait - the craftsmanship of which Jaskier silently applauded himself on as it had managed to survive the brunt of their late-night activities. The stray hairs obstructed his view of the bow-like curve of Geralt’s lips and he gently swept them back, tucking them securely behind an ear.  
  
Of course, in the early-morning haze, Jaskier forgot one very important fact; Geralt’s eyes were currently out of commission, _unable_ to open. The implicating burns had healed overnight, leaving behind no other evidence of foul play.  
  
He had inched closer and closer to the other’s statuesque face, examining every little mark, every rapidly fading bruise – everything – and feeling quite the voyeur, when suddenly Geralt’s gruff voice broke the silence, a deep rumble in his chest that nearly sent him into cardiac arrest.  
  
“Jaskier.” A small smirk tugged at the corner of the Witcher’s lips, though his eyes remained shut. “Like what you see?”  
  
The bard yelped and instinctively recoiled but Geralt curled his arm more tightly about his waist, halting his progress and pulling him closer still.  
  
“Ger _alt_ \- have you been awake this whole time?” Jaskier huffed, though he couldn’t help a flustered little smile of his own. “You scamp, you nearly gave me a - _mm_ \- ”  
  
Geralt cut him off by capturing his lips in an impressively well-aimed kiss, though Jaskier continued hurling out muffled accusations as strong arms jostled him about until he was straddling the other man’s waist, their lips breaking contact only long enough for him to utter a breathless, “and _what's_ all this for?”  
  
“Last night. Didn’t know my body could bend that way.” The Witcher’s soft, charming smirk turned sly, calloused thumbs rubbing circles around the subtle points of Jaskier’s hipbones. He gave an experimental stretch, groaning when a bone popped. “It feels like I spent a night in the rack.”  
  
The memory of _that_ particular position, which he had used the Witcher’s body to execute through sheer force of will alone, brought a small amount of color to Jaskier’s cheeks. From his perch atop the other, he grinned.  
  
“Is that a complaint?”  
  
“Far from it,” Geralt coaxed a surprised, but pleased moan from the other as he subtly adjusted his hips, slotting himself between two well-shaped thighs and breathing, voice deliciously raw, “most impressive.”  
  
“Ah. Well. _You’re_ welcome. It appears I’m just as flexible in the confines of your massive, hulking frame as I am in mine.” Jaskier lowered himself, propping his elbows up on either side of the other man and relishing in the feeling of their bodies pressed flush against each other. “I think we have Cynthia to thank for that.”  
  
Geralt’s teeth grazed the bard’s shoulder as he murmured a gentle, lustful, “thank you, Cynthia.”  
  
Below that shoulder, the morning light and Jaskier's new vantage point made apparent several scratch marks and love bites on his chest. Quite peculiar to recall that he had…well, he had left them on himself, hadn’t he? The thought was strangely enticing and he quirked a brow, regarding the man between his legs with a devilish look as he felt both of their arousal becoming increasingly apparent.  
  
“What say we go for round…er, I think I lost count after the second. Is it three?”  
  
The Witcher snorted and, keeping Jaskier balanced on his lap, shifted them into a more upright position. He settled his back against the few pillows that hadn’t been flung off the bed in the night.  
  
“Five.” The pink coloring the bard’s cheeks intensified as Geralt allowed his hands to wander from his hips to his thighs, giving them a firm squeeze. “But I wouldn’t be opposed - ”  
  
An abrupt rapping on the door cut him off and practically had Geralt's hackles rising, a low growl starting in his throat – though it was also abruptly cut off as he gave the air a cautious sniff, nostrils flaring when the heady scent of bog water, freshly-turned earth, and various herbs assaulted his senses. His aggression quickly morphed into irritation, head falling back miserably into the pillows.  
  
“ _Hello_?” Another knock, Annika’s harsh voice interrupting their post-coital, pre-coital bliss. The sound of it had Jaskier quickly clambering off his lover, for he was painfully aware of the witch’s tendency to burst into their room without warning and he couldn’t quite remember if he had locked the door. “Are you muppets up yet?”  
  
“Fuck off,” Geralt barked back, smoothly catching the bard – whose foot had gotten caught in the bedsheet, nearly sending him somersaulting over the edge – and hauling him back into an upright position, “it’s the arse crack of dawn - _careful_ , Jaskier."  
  
Jaskier gaped at the – yet again – impressive display of reflexes. A bit gutting, considering he had been unable to even properly remove his _shirt_ just the night before. “How on _earth_ did you manage that?”  
  
A smirk, Geralt’s warm hand releasing his bicep and skating down to his lower back. His voice was a low purr. “Would you like to see what else I can mana - ”  
  
“You _do_ realize I can hear you quite plainly.” Her second vocal intrusion had the wolfish look on Geralt’s face souring. It sounded as though she was leaning with her back against the door, occasionally thumping on it with her foot. So it _was_ locked, then. Would be very easy to brush her off and continue as they were, Jaskier reckoned. “Are you really getting busy with each other? In your current state? _Sad_.”  
  
“Oh, you - that’s _completely_ uncalled for, Annika!” Voice cracking with slight embarrassment, Jaskier forced himself to postpone his early-morning bonus round with Geralt, shove on his breeches, and stalk over to the door. He flung it open and without its support, Annika nearly pitched backwards, just managing to catch herself on the wall. “What could you _possibly_ need at this hour?”  
  
The witch quickly recovered from her near-fall, brushing herself off and squinting at him. She took in his rumpled bedhead, recognizing the petulant look on his face almost immediately. “Ah. You’ve switched back, then.”  
  
“ _Yes_ , but we’re in the middle of - ”  
  
“Has he regained his sight?”  
  
“Not as of yet.” Jaskier tapped his foot impatiently, tempted – mostly by the fresh memory of Geralt, prone and naked and wanting beneath him – to slam the door in her face. “Now, what do you want? I'm assuming some dire emergency has brought you to our doorstep as it is _barely_ the first flush of morning - ”  
  
“What's the matter, sunshine? Did you wake on the wrong side of the bedroll? Crotchety little thing.” She shook her head, plucking a stray feather from Jaskier’s hair - likely from the down pillows – giving it a sniff, and pocketing it. The bard looked on disdainfully, nose crinkled, though he had stopped questioning the witch’s oddities long ago. “Yennefer has requested – well, _demanded_ \- that both of you report to the study, posthaste – her words, not mine. _Obviously_. She’s so godsdamned prim, it drives me absolutely – fucking _hell_.” She had made the mistake of peering over Jaskier’s shoulder and into the room. “Will you tell your feral brute to cover himself? I don’t much like sausage with my eggs, thanks.”  
  
With a confused frown, Jaskier turned to see what she was referring to – the effect was immediate as he took in the sight before him, bursting into wicked laughter. There was Geralt, still stark naked, seated casually on the edge of the bed. He was in the process of untangling a knot that had formed in the string of his tunic, looking entirely unbothered by their exchange.  
  
He glanced up and scowled upon hearing Annika’s deadpan demand, though made no move to follow it and returned his attention to the knot, the task far more arduous without the use of his eyes.  
  
“Will you tell your nosy witch to get lost?”  
  
“Right. You heard him. _Shoo_.” Jaskier ushered Annika out of the doorway before she could make any more crude jokes. “Let her know we’ll come as soon as we’re dressed. _Posthaste_.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah. I’ve got to acquire some lye on the way back so I can bleach my eyes, anyhow. Should buy you some time.” As she spoke, she reached into her satchel, digging through bundles of lavender and suspiciously-labeled pots and producing two neatly-wrapped, grease-stained, brown paper bundles. She gave them a longing look before shoving them roughly into his chest. “Here. Take these. It was supposed to be _my_ breakfast but you look…haggard. Understandable, if _that's_ what you're contending with every night. Beastly.”  
  
He frowned. “You don’t have to – hang on, _haggard_?”  
  
“Shut up and take the damn things. Consider it my, uh… _penance_.” She waved him off when he started telling her that it was unnecessary, that she was already forgiven. “And I’ll hear nothing more on the subject. I despise guilt. And gratitude.”  
  
Before he could thank her, she gave he and Geralt one last unsavory – and maybe the tiniest bit tender, if you squinted – glance before stalking off down the hall, muttering something about finding the key to the housemaid’s closet.  
  
Jaskier watched her turn the corner before reentering the room and kicking the door closed behind him. A mix of curiosity and hunger had him immediately undoing the twine that kept the brown paper in place. Within the packages sat two miniature batter puddings, still piping hot. The smell of butter and drippings immediately had his mouth watering, stomach making obscene sounds that elicited a chuckle from Geralt.  
  
“Annika’s right.” Jaskier pulled on his trousers – and yes, they were the tiniest bit looser than they had been before their journey began – before diving into the baked goods, moaning when he took his first bite. “Fuck _me_ , that’s good.” He shoved the second into Geralt’s hands without warning, earning an annoyed grunt as the man struggled to decipher what the hot, soft thing was. “Anyway, in case - gods forbid - we switch again, you ate like a bloody bird in my body. I’m a grown man, you know. Not a swallow.”  
  
“I'll keep that in mind.” Geralt frowned, remembering the way it had frequently felt as though there were hundreds of tiny butterflies flitting about in Jaskier’s insides. “Your stomach...it flutters. Often. Barely had an appetite. We should see a healer about that.”  
  
“Flutters? What are you…gods, I _do_ look haggard.” Having practically swallowed his breakfast whole, the bard chattered away while he stood in front of the small mirror adjacent to their bed, fluffing his hair and examining the dark circles under his eyes. “I think what you're describing is a nervous stomach. Fairly appropriate reaction to all the mayhem we’ve dealt with these last few days.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“Poisoning, _fever_ , almost being eaten alive by a snake…er, demon? Lizard demon? Not really sure how to classify…Geralt, will you _please_ stop looking at me like that? It’s – actually, it’s quite unnerving…that _smile_ …”  
  
The Witcher couldn’t see what Jaskier was seeing - couldn’t see much of anything with his eyes magically sealed shut. He was sure, however, that he wasn’t smiling at all.  
  
Through a mouthful of fluffy, eggy bread, he managed, "I can't _look_ at anything.”  
  
“Ah, right. It’s…” Jaskier swiveled around to look at Geralt, seeing that his face was as stoic as ever. Blue eyes returned to the glass, blinking a couple of times, “aaand it's back to normal. Oh, _spooky_.”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.” Frustrating, certainly, not being able to see or keep the bard’s attention long enough to get an explanation. “What’s happening?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing. Trick of the light, perhaps. Or a ghost." It took him a moment to tear his eyes away - he didn't want to worry Geralt for no reason but something about that apparition, or whatever it was, had seemed so _familiar_. Hungry, too. "We’d best get moving. Annika said something about bleaching her eyes and I'd rather not be responsible for another accidental blinding.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “That bad?”  
  
Jaskier knew Geralt couldn’t see his impish grin, so he gave him a quick peck on the cheek as they made their way out the door. “Could be. I’ll have to get a closer look later to be sure.” 

♜ ♖

“Does this qualify as sex magic?” Annika sneered, using her teeth to tear the stem off a cherry before popping it into her mouth. Dark red juices colored her lips, dribbling messily down her chin. “Naughty ducks. That’s forbidden. As a law-abiding citizen, I feel compelled to report you.”  
  
The foursome was seated at a large stone table in the parlor. Originally, they had met Yennefer and Annika in the study, but it was only to carry the ridiculous amount of books they needed for their ‘research,’ as the sorceress put it, to a location that would better suit their numbers.  
  
Yennefer, naturally, had been shocked to find Jaskier and Geralt switched again overnight - a discovery that segued into an increasingly uncomfortable conversation about how exactly they had managed it.  
  
As Annika spoke – without bleached eyes, thankfully – some of the juice got on Jaskier’s hand and he recoiled, wiping it furiously on his pants.  
  
“Ugh, you _spat_ on me! Tell me again why we didn’t just leave her in the cave?” His wiping slowed and he frowned, processing what exactly she had said. “Wait – is sex magic _real_? Did – did we - I mean, I don't have a magical bone in my body - ”  
  
The witch grinned maliciously, teeth stained bright red, and gestured at his lap below the table. "Perhaps just one."  
  
Yen raised a hand to quiet them, using the other to stabilize herself on the table as though their ignorant line of questioning had physically winded her.  
  
“ _No_ , it's not real. Not necessarily. But the idea of using sex to amplify a spell does tend to have darker connotations.” After a momentary pause Yennefer lowered her hand, and Jaskier thought he had never seen her with bruises before. Likely because she couldn’t use magic to heal them but still, it was an odd sight, and he realized he did not like it or the exhausted countenance of her voice at all. “Though I would have preferred you not do anything to encourage the switches, at least you’re back in your own bodies with no obvious side effects. Tell me, did it happen during your…climax?”  
  
Jaskier asked “which one?” at nearly the exact moment that Geralt hissed “for fuck’s sake.”  
  
“Oh, this is rich.” Annika, going in for another handful of cherries.  
  
“Grow up, the lot of you. I'll need to know exactly when it happened so we can avoid future incidents.”  
  
“Er – I suppose there _were_ some amorous… _vocalizations_ at some point or other during the night and I do believe it happened..." Jaskier's forehead creased as he thought back, "well, after we exchanged _that_ one. You know, the one with three words - am I allowed to say it? I lo - ”  
  
“Best not." Unsure whether or not it might trigger another switch - unsure of much of anything - Yen swiftly cut in. "But that's good to know. It was less about the sex and more about the – ”  
  
“Hang on.” It was Annika’s turn to raise a hand, eyeing Jaskier dubiously. “If you're telling me love has broken yet another one of your curses I will be violently ill - ”  
  
“The only one it's broken so far was _your_ curse! Maybe you should - I don't know, get better curses. Or something. Can we change the subject? It was a very _personal_ moment. Loving and tender and _wonderful_ , but personal - "  
  
“Not anymore.” Geralt interjected.  
  
" - yes, precisely. _Love_ that we all took the time out of our morning to discuss, in graphic detail, how Geralt - ”  
  
“Plowed your field?”  
  
Jaskier shot Annika a look. “And how do you know _I_ didn’t do the plowing?”  
  
Yennefer's serious façade broke involuntarily and she let out a brash snort. Geralt, meanwhile, shook his head in exasperation. “Can we stop fucking around? I want to get this over with.”  
  
“I do hope that's not what you said last night.”  
  
Jaskier gasped. “ _Yennefer_ of Vengerberg! I expected better of you. And for the record, that is nearly the exact _opposite_ of what he said.”  
  
The sorceress’s laugh was a light, pretty sound – and it seemed she had needed that small dose of levity, some of the tension draining from her shoulders and pinched features.  
  
“All right.” She cleared her throat, composing herself with impressive ease, and dragged one of the many large stacks of tomes across the table. “A bit of light reading. I took the liberty of finding the most recently updated works on otherworldly magic such as this. A few compendiums of known demonic entities, specifically from other spheres, as well. See if we can't identify our baddie _and_ our curse before Cirilla arrives tonight.”  
  
The bard's blue eyes lit up. "Ciri's coming?"  
  
"Yes. A trusted ally of mine is escorting her to the manor as we speak."  
  
"'Trusted ally?'" Geralt, immediately suspicious. "Vesemir?"  
  
"No."  
  
"What the fuck, Yen? Who?"  
  
"Really, Geralt." She sighed, shuffling through the stack and pulling out four ancient-looking volumes. "Don't you trust me?"  
  
"Not entirely."  
  
"Liar. I thought Vesemir might have his hands full ensuring the keep's security so I called on a friend. One who _also_ happens to be an expert on this sort of thing. Could offer some wisdom."  
  
She plopped a book down in front of Jaskier, its stiff, worn pages producing a large cloud of dust. The bard drew back, coughing and wheezing, waving his hands frantically to clear the air. “’ _Recently updated_?’ These look like the first books ever written.”  
  
“Admittedly, there isn’t much on the subject. Occurrences like this are few and far between. Ever since the Brotherhood started cracking down on all the outlawed magics, that is. I’m surprised they’ve allowed something like this to happen right under their noses.” Yen let out a sinister chuckle, amethyst eyes going dark with wicked mirth. “What I wouldn’t give to see them running about their towers like chickens with their heads cut off.”  
  
She doled out the rest of the books, first to Annika, then Geralt. As soon as the scent of its musty pages reached his nose, he scowled in her general direction.  
  
“Does it look like I can read this?”  
  
“Ah.” Her dark brows knitted together as she returned it to her own pile. “I guess you’re off the hook, then.”  
  
"I'd like to hear more about this ally."  
  
" _Later_ , Geralt." Yen's tone was firm, leaving no room for argument. "Please put the smallest amount of faith in me. I think I've earned it."  
  
“No _fair_.” Jaskier rested his cheek on the cover of his own volume, moaning miserably. “Reading is something to be _enjoyed_." He raised his head, gingerly lifting the cover and taking a peek at its contents, cringing when he saw the list of authors. "The outdated musings of stodgy old men with bits of stew trapped in their beards do _not_ spark joy. There's no poetry. No _feeling_."  
  
Yennefer smirked, giving him a pat on the head before taking a seat. "There, there, Jaskier. You might find a few musings written by stodgy old women in there, too."  
  
" _Thrilling_."  
  
They had been toiling away for some odd hours when Geralt – who had been quietly meditating – suddenly stood, the legs of his chair screeching against the marble floor, breaking the thick silence and startling everyone at the table.  
  
Jaskier perked up instantly, ready as ever to abandon what he had decided was _the_ most boring book in all the kingdoms. “Where are we going?”  
  
“Got to piss.”  
  
The bard visibly deflated, but another thought had him moving to stand. “Do you need help? I’ll walk you - ”  
  
“No, Jaskier.” Geralt squeezed the slender hand that had slipped into his before setting it gently back down on the table. “I’m all right.”  
  
“Take a right out of the parlor, down the hall, first left.” Yen, without looking up from her reading material. “Please don’t piss all over my new porcelain facilities.”  
  
“Wouldn’t sweat it. I do it all the time.” Annika mused, flipping nonchalantly through illustrations of various demons, searching for one that might fit Geralt and Jaskier's vague, serpentine description.  
  
The bard cringed. “Tell me, Annika, do you say these things just to get a reaction from us or is there a grain of truth behind them? I’m only asking because I’m genuinely concerned for your well-being…”  
  
Their voices became warbled echoes before fading off completely as Geralt exited the parlor and made his way down the hall, boots thudding heavily against stone. He let his fingers trail along the left-hand wall until he came upon the washroom door.  
  
He went about his business, locating the glorified chamber pot and relieving himself with little to no incident. Well, maybe a little, but he couldn't see it and therefore did not give a shit.  
  
It wasn't until he finished doing his leather pants back up that he was suddenly hit with a wave of dizziness and a shock of pain that had him careening backwards, barely catching himself on the counter at the far side of the room. He raised a hand to his eyes as the pain, which was a fizzling sort of twinge beneath the lids, sparked and intensified before slowly ebbing away.  
  
Blood had rushed to his head, but the weightless feeling that brought about started to dissipate as well and as he turned to lean more heavily on the counter, his eyes flickered open and he immediately saw himself in the large mirror fixed on the wall above the sink.  
  
Sight. His sight was back. Annika's botched spell must have finally worn off.  
  
Strangely enough, as he regarded his reflection in the mirror, his first thought was not of relief for himself or his sight. It was of how he couldn’t wait to see Jaskier’s face again, see him laugh rather than simply hear it.  
  
Though it had only been half a day (technically longer, as he had been inhabiting the bard's body prior to the blinding incident) it felt like an eternity. And while Geralt was - for all intents and purposes - a romantic, those thoughts did not usually strike him out of the blue so forcefully. They lingered in the back of his mind, pleasant musings that were rarely spoken. Now, however, they were at the forefront, nearly taking his breath away.  
  
Focus. Check for damage, see Jaskier. In that order. Fight the infuriating urge to sprint down the hall and gaze upon his lover.  
  
As he peered curiously at his reflection, checking his irises and the reaction time of his pupils, his eyes suddenly curved to make room for a too-broad, too-toothy grin. Just as before – back in their room – he had made no such expression.  
  
In fact, he had been tugging at his left bottom eyelid to get a better look and his reflection, in addition to the eerie smile, let it tongue loll out the side, creating an incredibly uncharacteristic and silly face.  
  
Jarring, but Geralt was decently desensitized to such occurrences. Magic, curses, demons. He’d pretty much seen it all. With a world-weary groan, he shook his head and drew closer to examine the development further.  
  
He waved a hand, watched as it waved back in perfect synchronization. His own mouth was set in a hard line but on the other side that infuriating grin persisted – though it did have the decency to put its tongue back in its mouth and follow suit when he removed his finger from his eyelid.  
  
After a moment more of careful scrutinization, he groaned.  
  
“Unbelievable.” He thought of that goofy, charming smile waiting for him down the hall. “Don’t have time for this.”  
  
It wasn’t until he turned to leave that he found that he couldn't. He grunted, trying to pry his feet up off the floor, but it was as if the bottoms of his boots had been fastened in place with a powerful adhesive.  
  
A growl as he tried again to no avail. The tense feeling, like a bad cramp, started to spread – first his calves, then his thighs, his hips – and his muscles trembled as he fought against it. Cursing, he glared up at the mirror and found his double had cocked its head playfully to the side, watching him struggle with obvious amusement. His amulet was going absolutely haywire, _thump, thump thump_ against his chest with each violent vibration.  
  
He scowled at his doppelganger. He was still calm, not easily shaken by cheap tricks. “Binding spell?”  
  
It shook its head, raising a blunt finger up and tapping its skull. His frown deepened. There was no way it had gotten into his mind. Only Yennefer had been successful on that front as of yet and, by her own admission, it had been no easy feat.  
  
“Vrart.”  
  
As he stared at it, waiting for a response to his accusation, he noticed its mouth was moving around words he couldn’t hear - the same words over and over again. Some sort of incantation that didn’t stop as it unsheathed the dagger hidden in his belt, directing its unnerving gaze to the weapon’s flawless silver surface. There was a harsh pounding in Geralt's ears, his temples, like the beating of a drum.  
  
When he glanced down at his hands outside of the reflection he saw they hadn’t moved.  
  
Right. It _had_ managed to get in his head. Or there was some powerful illusion magic at play. Either way, he needed to do something. Cast a sign –  
  
The word was on Geralt’s lips but as soon as he tried vocalizing it, his throat constricted and his mouth snapped shut. He managed an irritated “ _bast_ \- ” before it did and his hand, that had been raised, fingers poised, froze in place before he could complete the motion.  
  
Glare was all he could do, however, as his reflection offered him another horrible smile before plunging the weapon straight into his stomach. The pain was immediate, excruciating – and all too _real_ \- and he instinctively hunched over, a hand gripping the edge of the counter so hard the blood drained from his fingers and knuckles, leaving them as stark white as the ceramic he was throttling.  
  
It didn’t stop there. The being threw its head back in a silent laugh before it started using the dagger to root around in Geralt’s insides, twisting and _digging_ , bringing fresh waves of pain with each movement. He choked on a groan, tried clearing his head with a shake while biting back any subsequent sounds of pain. The stench of brimstone and sulphur was thick and noxious, permeating the air in the small room, his nostrils flaring in an attempt to expel it.  
  
Sweat dripped down his forehead and onto his fingers with soft little _plicks_ and the moisture had his hand slipping, had him readjusting his grip to keep himself upright. He clenched his fingers so tightly he left a crack in the edge of the sink.  
  
Part of him knew it was an enchantment, or a hallucination – either way, that it wasn’t _really_ happening. He wasn't really bleeding, his hand wasn't really smearing the blood all over his face, his tongue wasn't really curling out of his mouth, too long, to lick the gore of his fingers, those same fingers diving back down with the intent of plucking out his small intestines -  
  
In a last ditch effort he sucked in a sharp breath through his nose and reached for those back reserves of strength he only used in the most dire of circumstances. He removed the arm he had curled protectively about his abdomen and raised it up to the mirror, entire body shaking with effort.  
  
As soon as he cast the sign he braced himself, unsure of whether or not it would backfire on him or shatter the glass. It ended up being the former and the force of the blow threw him back into the far wall, leaving a large fracture in the stone.  
  
All at once his reflection returned to normal. It displayed him slamming heavily into marble and then crumpling to the floor, where he remained motionless.


	75. Chapter 75

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lazy Sunday update! Apologies ahead of time because things are about to get rough for Geralt, let’s see an f in the comments <3 f for forgiveness that is, pls forgive me
> 
> Also sorry for any typos/bad grammar/general bad, I'm slightly (very) hungover after a party last night. Next chapter I’ll backtrack a lil so we can see more of Ciri’s arrival too, just had to wrap this one uppppp yanno the fantasy babble kind of got away from me and it ended up being pretty long (uh-gain)
> 
> ALSO also the ‘song’ I use in this chapter is just some rando riddle about snakes I found on da google

“Here’s something.”  
  
Jaskier – who, following Geralt’s departure, had zoned out almost completely, eyes going in and out of focus while he read and re-read the same long-winded paragraph over, and over, and over, and ov – jolted at the sound of Yen’s voice, nearly falling out of his seat. At his right, Annika watched him swipe a bit of drool from the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Did you fall asleep with your eyes open?”  
  
He blinked the blurriness from his vision, looking bewildered as he reacquainted himself with the table, his chair, the book. Reality as a whole. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. Did I seem out of it?”  
  
She snorted. “No more than usual.”  
  
“Ha- _ha_. Hilarious, really.” The bard yawned and stretched, tilting his head to the side and meeting Yen’s gaze, noticing for the first time that she was glaring pointedly at him. He thrust a finger at her. “ _You_ look like my old schoolteacher when she found out I was hoarding jelly tarts in my pockets.”  
  
That had her looking slightly horrified. “How old?”  
  
“ _Old_ old. Fantastic cheekbones, though.”  
  
“Damn it.” Yennefer started massaging the frown from her face with the tips of her fingers - crotchety old headmistress was decidedly _not_ how she wanted to be seen. “Tissaia really did a number on me. Anyway, I’ve found something that might prove useful.”  
  
“Oh?” Jaskier raised a brow. “Do tell.”  
  
“The story features a human warlock. Before the Brotherhood, the wars, all that. Humans had barely scratched the surface of magic but, _supposedly_ , this was the first time someone successfully contacted another world - the one where demons thrive.”  
  
“Yikes.”  
  
"Mm. Thing is, I never heard anything about it during my time at the academy.” She drummed her fingers on the yellowed pages of her book. “It seems he was trying to open the door between our two spheres. Entered a deal with a silver-tongued demon, the terms of which would place him into an immortal body...on the condition that he granted it and its legions access to earth, of course.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Always with the legions.”  
  
“There’s no proof, though. It reads more like a fairytale than anything else.”  
  
“Ooh, and how does it end? Does a dashing hero save the day?” Jaskier grinned, poking a finger into the indent that formed on his left cheek. "Does he have dimples?"  
  
Annika rolled her eyes. "Dimples my arse. Those are laugh lines."  
  
Yen quickly spoke again to quell any and all subsequent arguments. “No, no heroes. The demon was let loose, tasked with bringing its master someone strong. 'Strongest on earth,' is the wording used here. The warlock would take that body and gain immortality, along with limitless power. There were certain parameters, qualities the individual had to possess. Longevity, for one.”  
  
Jaskier crinkled his nose. “'Strongest on earth?' Huh. Did the demon go door-to-door? Take a census?”  
  
“Cheeky. They ended up settling on some famous warrior.” She snorted. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Only in a fairytale will you hear that the strongest person in the world is a man in a suit of armor. Anyway, they completed the transaction. The demon gave the body to its master - the warlock - who in turn opened the door, allowing untold horrors to walk freely. Chaos remained fucked for centuries to follow. That part does make sense, though. As we've seen, magic from other worlds doesn't mix well with our own.”  
  
Annika nodded in approval. “My kind of fairytale.”  
  
“If we’re equating this to Vrart and his whole body-snatching gambit - well, Geralt _is_ strong. The strongest, though?" The bard cocked his head to the side, face scrunched up in thought. "Eh-h-h. I guess he's up there. Vrart _did_ speak of a master, though. Who could it be?”  
  
“I don't know, Jaskier. This is all speculation. May have nothing to do with - ”  
  
“Wait – where _is_ Geralt?” He peered about the room, realizing they were short one very large member. “Did he come back while I was, er…ruminating over the texts?”  
  
Yennefer looked taken aback. Seemed she had not given it any thought, either. “No. No, he didn’t come back.”  
  
“Wh - and no one thought to check on him? He’s _blind!_ What if – what if he fell in a ditch somewhere?”  
  
He stood, nearly knocking his chair over. Just as he was about to make his way to the washroom, however, a hunched, hulking figure stalked in.  
  
“Oi, Geralt! Where the _hell_ have you been? I was just about to…Geralt?”  
  
The Witcher stopped short in the threshold of the parlor entrance, looking like he wasn’t entirely sure how he got there.  
  
_Looking_. His eyes were open.  
  
With a gasp, Jaskier bounded excitedly over, placing his hands on either side of the other man’s face and marveling at the sight of wonderfully golden eyes. Oh, how he had missed them.  
  
“You can see!”  
  
“Uh - ”  
  
“When did this happen?” He prodded a strangely expressionless face. “And _how_?”  
  
Those blessedly _open_ eyes stared vacantly down at him, the mouth below curving into a frown. “I…don’t remember.” A wince as Jaskier’s hands, moving to his lower back with the intention of pulling him into a hug, found a tender spot. “Ow.”  
  
"'Ow?'" Jaskier’s elated smile waned, replaced by obvious confusion, immediate concern. “What - your back? It hurts? What happened?”  
  
“Don’t know.”  
  
“Shit. You look pale. Okay. Um…here, come sit.”  
  
Giving Geralt another worried look, the bard ushered him over to the rest of the group and plopped him down.  
  
“Are you all right?” That was Yen, watching the scene curiously from across the table.  
  
“Fine.”  
  
Annika was studying his eyes, humming in satisfaction when she saw no lasting damage. “The spell’s reversed completely, so the fact that he’s behaving like a vampire’s thrall is _not_ on me. Perhaps he fell.” She poked his cheek, though Jaskier quickly batted her hand away. “Hello in there? Did you hit your head, petal? Take a little tumble?”  
  
All at once, Geralt came back to himself. The distant look in his eyes vanished and he snapped to attention, shooting Annika a very in-character glare.  
  
“Call me ‘petal’ again, see what happens.”  
  
“A-a-and he’s back. Yippee.” She returned to her book, having lost interest in the matter.  
  
“Geralt,” Jaskier gently probed the back of the other man’s head, checking for any bumps, “did you fall? Maybe you should lay - ”  
  
All the heat left the Witcher's eyes and he gently took Jaskier’s prying hand into his own, holding it in place on his lap. “Like I said, I’m fine. It’s coming back now. Blacked out when my sight returned.”  
  
“And your back - ”  
  
“Must've landed badly on it. Healing as we speak.”  
  
He wasn't entirely convinced but decided to let it go for the time being and, after a few more dead-end questions, they all returned to their research. Geralt grabbed a book of his own, though at Jaskier's insistence he eventually migrated to a plush day bed on the other side of the room. Yennefer joined him on the opposite sofa, lounging like a cat in the afternoon light as she read.  
  
Still at the table, for he knew would certainly fall asleep if he followed suit, Jaskier cast furtive glances at Geralt every time he thought he wasn’t looking. On more than one occasion the Witcher noticed, offering small, reassuring smirks in return. The occasional wink had blue eyes crinkling with a smile, soft cheeks flushing ever-so-slightly.  
  
Add to that a few more hours, and Geralt’s strange behavior had been mostly forgotten. Annika, still at the table beside Jaskier, had already gone through two compendiums and vocalized that she was starting to get bored of staring at "these foul demons and their ugly mugs."  
  
The bard offered a distasteful glance at his own text. "Switchsies? Yours looks far more interesting," he peered over her shoulder at an illustrated pair of breasts on a succubus, "and contains, from what I can see, a _lot_ more nudity.”  
  
"Yes, all right. Give it here, you deviant."  
  
They switched books and the group lapsed into silence again. Geralt, however - while reading about various known curses - started finding it harder and harder to focus. He became aware of a slight headache, a lingering pain in his back that wasn't assuaged by the soft pillows that cushioned it. There was also something nagging at the back of his mind. It started out soft, a gentle murmur, but eventually became clearer. Words. A voice.  
  
_**Where are we?**_  
  
He frowned, shaking his head. Reading. He was reading. A curse on a pair of lovers, about a century ago, that turned them inside out. Irreversible.  
  
As he struggled, the voice repeated the question, again and again. It evolved into multiple voices, whispering urgently. He sat stiffly, a bead of sweat dripping down onto the pages below and blurring the word 'sacrifice.'  
  
It culminated in him blurting out, quite suddenly, "where are we?"  
  
It had been quiet enough that only Yen heard. She quirked a brow. “Is that a trick question?”  
  
Geralt gave her a strange look. Had he spoken? _**No.**_ "No." The word escaped his lips unbidden and he frowned. “What?”  
  
“You asked where we are.”  
  
_**Where are we?**_  
  
Again - not of his own accord and through gritted teeth - his mouth started moving around another stifled, rocky, “ _where_ \- ”  
  
“A-ha! Found you, you slimy devil. I think.” Jaskier, who had been flipping through his new book, stopped suddenly on a page. “Oh - giant, man-eating serpent? Unbearably chipper? That’s got Vrart written all over it. Or…” he paused at the top, where he had expected to see their new enemy’s name, “ _not?_ What is this? Vuh…”  
  
“You actually think its name is ‘ _Vrart?_ ’” Annika, without looking up. “What you’re looking at is likely its true name. Go on, precious. Sound it out. You can do it.”  
  
“I could _do_ without the patronizing tone, thank you very much.” Jaskier squinted at the page. “All right. Vuh…vah…gods, whose handwriting is this? It’s atrocious. Vah-reh…no, that’s an ‘l,’ isn’t it? Val - ”  
  
Frustrated that he was taking so long, Annika nudged closer but as soon her eyes dropped to the page he was reading, they widened.  
  
“Wait - ”  
  
“That’s definitely an ‘f.’ Vale - ”  
  
“ _Stop!_ ”  
  
She swiped the book out from under his nose and threw it across the room, but not before he uttered the final syllable - ‘ _for_.’ Yennefer and Geralt - their odd exchange abandoned in favor of learning more about the possible demon that plagued them - shot out of their seats immediately upon hearing Annika's shout and the papery _thwack_ of the tome hitting the far wall.  
  
“Fucking hell!” Jaskier watched it go before swiveling in his chair to face Annika with a look of absolute betrayal, voice unbearably pitchy. “ _Why_?”  
  
Geralt's hand hovered over the hilt of his sword - the voice had gone, taking his memory of its presence with it.  
  
“What’s happening, Annika?”  
  
“That demon.” She was standing now, digging around in her satchel for a lump of flint and a steel striker. Once she had them, she hurried over to the book, dropping to her knees beside it. “We need to burn this blasted thing, _now_ , before - ”  
  
The room inexplicably went dark. There were plenty of large windows that had been filling the space with natural light but it was as though a massive cloud passed overhead. A sudden gust blew a few of them open and Yennefer cursed, quickly moving to secure them.  
  
She had to raise her voice to breach the din - a tumultuous gale had whipped up outside, causing stray branches and debris to crash into the windows. "Why is this happening? A name is just that - it shouldn't hold any power without the proper steps!"  
  
"Not this one." Annika replied darkly.  
  
" _How?_ "  
  
“Um.” Jaskier stood, not quite sure what to do with himself. He thought he should go help Annika but Geralt grabbed his arm and pulled him back. “What’s happening right now? Should, uh – should we be running?”  
  
“Won’t do any good if that’s what’s after you.” Annika, struggling with the flint. When it failed again, she started scrubbing it with the bottom of her blouse. “Why is this _wet?_ ” A pause when she thought back to the clumps of seaweed she had gathered that morning for a salve, floating freely in her bag. “ _Fuck_.”  
  
“Stay, Jaskier.” Geralt let his hand linger on the bard’s arm a moment longer before striding over to the witch. “I'll do it.”  
  
He crouched before the book, casting igni - hissing, however, when it burned his hand rather than his target. In response, its pages started flipping and fluttering erratically. Jaskier – who hadn’t obeyed, furtively scooting closer to get a better look - yelped and fell back a few steps, bumping into the edge of the table.  
  
The book, its hard front and back covers thumping noisily on the stone floor, abruptly stopped turning its own pages, landing on the one Jaskier had been perusing before. The grinning, serpentine face that had originally given him pause beamed up at them – too realistic, more so than before, as though it might leap off the page at any second.  
  
He could have sworn he saw it move as a sultry - but incredibly _familiar_ \- voice sent reverberations through the floor, rattling the cups on the table.  
  
“ _Ann – i -ka_ ,” it purred, laughing raucously and causing those cups to burst – Jaskier, who was closest, shrieked and ducked as tiny shards of porcelain flew in every direction. One caught his cheek, drawing a small amount of blood.  
  
“Nobody speak to it!” Yennefer shouted – having secured the windows, she cautiously approached the scene. Under normal circumstances, she would banish whatever was currently destroying her meticulously-pruned shrubbery outside with a simple flick of the wrist, but she had no way of knowing if and how the spell might backfire. Accidentally conjuring the thing would _not_ be good. "Not a _single_ word!"  
  
Geralt went to snatch the flint and steel from Annika's shaking hands but as soon as the voice spoke a spike of pain lanced through his temples. He choked - the sound, however small, drew Jaskier's attention away from the mayhem breaking out in the parlor.  
  
_**Sleep**_.  
  
The bard watched in horror as his lover swayed for a moment before going limp and crashing heavily to the floor.  
  
“Geralt!” He was on the floor beside him in an instant, shaking broad shoulders - though the man's face looked peaceful, he was unresponsive. Fearful blue eyes found Annika’s in the darkness. “Wh-what did it do to him?”  
  
She shook her head, speechless - the disembodied voice, on the other hand, spoke again.  
  
“He's just taking a nap. You know, I’ve been having such fun in your body, bard.” It let out a happy sigh that rippled through the curtains and the trio simultaneously recognized whose voice it was using. Nearly a dead ringer for Jaskier’s, though it lacked his airy charm and leaned far too heavily on the s’s. “It’s so bouncy and bendy…didn’t bounce when I fell off that cliff, though. You should have seen how easily your legs snapped - like twigs. I made a cat’s cradle with your sinew while I waited. Hey, while I’ve got you, can I get your opinion on a song?”  
  
Nausea stirred in the pit of the bard’s stomach. His body, his voice… “M - m - ”  
  
“Don’t, Jas - ”  
  
" - skier." Vrart – for he was sure it was Vrart, the playful, almost childish way it spoke sounding far too familiar – finished with a chuckle, easily drowning Yennefer out. His next words were melodic and, with Jaskier’s rich voice, sounded almost like a song. “ _Long, slim and slender, dark as homemade thunder, keen eyes and a peaked nose, scares the devil wherever it go-o-oes_ \- ”  
  
As the song continued Jaskier became aware of a ringing in his ears that started out quietly but intensified with each word until he was forced to release Geralt and cover them. It became an unbearable screech and before he knew it he was on the floor, curling in on himself, eyes screwed shut. He thought he might vomit, or die, heart slamming against his chest. He was screaming now, surely, mouth moving around the sound –  
  
A hand was on his shoulder, gently – but urgently – giving him a shake. He cracked his eyes open, realizing that the sound had stopped but not knowing exactly when because it had felt _eternal_ , rupturing, hot and piercing -  
  
Yen was gazing worriedly down at him, saying something, and when he removed his hands from his ears he felt a warm wetness on his palms. In the creeping shadows, he could see dark stains on them. He blinked, and the stains were gone. Vrart’s singing had stopped, replaced by a bawdy laughter that echoed hollowly in the cavernous room, causing the massive chandelier above to quake.  
  
“ - just an illusion, it's not real - " the sorceress was saying and blearily, he saw that Annika had started fiddling with the flint again, striking it over and over against steel, beads of sweat glistening on her forehead, "what the hell's taking so long, Annika - "  
  
“Do _not_ start with me, Ye - ”  
  
“ _Yennefer_ ,” the horrible mockery of Jaskier’s voice sang her name, her posture stiffening in response.  
  
“Do I scare you, Yennefer? Yennefer, Yennefer of Vengerberg. Ooh, that name sits nicely on the tongue. I could eat it right up. Yennefer? What say you hand over the Witcher? Just leave him on the doorstep, I’ll come to collect. Do that for me, Yennefer, and I'll leave you alone. Won't take a single bite out of you or any of your friends.”  
  
Jaskier paled, but Yennefer squeezed his shoulder reassuringly. “It wouldn't be here if it knew where we are.”  
  
“So clever, Yennefer. What if I sweetened the deal - in return for the Witcher, I’ll give you that which you desire above all else. You still want it, don’t you? What they took from you? You want it so bad that it hurts sometimes. A phantom pain, right there.” At that, Yennefer's back hunched and her hand fisted in the material of her fitted black dress, just below her belly button. Annika finally managed a spark. Another. Finally, a tiny flame that caught on the corner of a page. “A prediction, if you will? The little blonde girl will offer temporary solace but in the end, she’ll only serve as a reminder that you will _never_ be whole - you'll hate her for it, hate her so much that one day you're going to - ”  
  
The book burst into flames just as Yennefer, clutching her temples with bloodless fingers, shouted “ _enough!_ ,” directly addressing those painted black eyes and horrible, gleeful grin. She immediately clapped a hand over her own mouth, face a mask of shock.  
  
As soon as the pages crumpled and blackened, Vrart and his potent presence in the room vanished as abruptly as they had arrived - it brought about a shared, strangely buoyant feeling, as though the demon himself had been there, pressing down on their shoulders, crushing them so slowly they hadn't even noticed.  
  
Light returned, the wind stopped howling, and the clouds ebbed away to reveal the burnt orange hues of early evening. Above, the chandelier groaned dangerously but thankfully did not fall. It was unlikely anybody would have moved a muscle if it had, the trio splayed about the room looking positively shell-shocked.  
  
Jaskier’s limbs felt like lead but he forced himself to move, cradling Geralt's head in his lap, murmuring his name and tapping his face in an attempt to rouse him. The Witcher did not move for a long moment, horribly still, and Jaskier swore he did not breathe until he heard a groan, watching as closed eyes screwed even more tightly shut before flickering open.  
  
Annika recovered first, rocketing up off the floor and rounding angrily on Yennefer. “ _What_ have you done?”  
  
The sorceress collapsed into a chair, white as a sheet. “Perhaps we burned the book just in time. There’s a chance it - ”  
  
"There's no _chance_ , you - "  
  
As they bickered, gold eyes glanced left, right, before blinking lazily up at Jaskier. He smiled sleepily upon recognizing the face above but frowned when he noticed the tracks of drying blood on its cheek. A thumb came up to swipe at them.  
  
“Jas.” It was all he could manage while the world slowly came back to him.  
  
“Geralt, my heart. Are you all right?” The argument behind him escalated and a flash of irritation had Jaskier tearing his eyes from his lover long enough to shoot the women a scowl. “Do you mind? Geralt’s – hey - _hey_! Claws away, you two! Now, what the _hell_ is going on?”  
  
“The demon was toying with us. Simple tricks of the mind, nothing more.” Annika’s bottle green eyes narrowed dangerously. “Harmless in small doses – that is, if Little Miss Perfect here had been able to keep her pretty mouth _shut_. May as well have put a beacon up telling it where we are. Or better yet, sent it a royal fucking invitation with our location circled and underlined - ”  
  
“I’ll _not_ be spoken to like that under my own roof, Annika.” Yen snapped, fixing the witch with a stern look. Jaskier floundered, still not completely understanding - he said as much and after a terse moment the sorceress sighed and explained. “Engaging with a demon during a summoning without the proper precautions is incredibly dangerous. Wards, circles, protective spells – they give us all the power during the exchange, forcing it to bend to _our_ will. Without them, we are defenseless.”  
  
“Sitting ducks.” Annika hissed in agreement, snatching her pack off the table. “And here I was worried _that_ blowhard,” she jerked her head at Jaskier, who responded with a very offended ‘ _hey_!’ “would be the one to give us away – little did I know, _you_ were the weak link all along.”  
  
“Leave. _Now_." Yen's full lips pursed. Still striking, ethereal, but she looked exhausted and her tone conveyed that quite clearly. "You may return once you’ve calmed yourself. We’ll need clear heads if we’re going to - ”  
  
“Oh, _spare_ me the imperious lecture. I’m already gone.”  
  
With one last cruel sneer, Annika hitched her bag on her shoulder and stomped out of the room. Jaskier tried to stop her, but was not quite ready to leave Geralt's side. He could only call her name and watch helplessly as she disappeared around the corner.  
  
Yennefer let out a long breath, leaning heavily against the edge of the table. After a moment her eyes slid over the Witcher, who had managed to sit up with Jaskier’s assistance. He looked worse for wear, like he hadn't slept in weeks, but his eyes weren’t glassy or distant as they had been after his last collapse.  
  
“What’s happening to you, Geralt?”  
  
He got to his feet with a grunt, brushing himself off. Jaskier flitted nervously about his side, checking him over and over again, buzzing with questions.  
  
“Don’t know.”  
  
“Right.” She sighed. “Brilliant.”  
  
The bard blanched. “What – that’s _it_? That’s all you’ve got to say? He’s collapsed – you’ve collapsed _twice_ in one day now, Geralt!”  
  
“I’m well aware.”  
  
“Well, isn’t – isn’t there something we can do? I mean, d’you think it has something to do with V - ”  
  
“Let’s refrain from speaking any of its names for the time being.” Yennefer chided, halfheartedly picking a book up off the ground and flipping it open.  
  
"You let it in." Geralt stood at the head of the table, palms pressed into its stone surface for support. “That’s not like you, Yen.”  
  
“It’s not like you to faint at the first sign of trouble like a fearful maiden, either, Geralt. I think it’s safe to say we’re both a little off our game.”  
  
“Got me there.”  
  
“At least we know for certain what we’re up against." Violet eyes gestured to the smoldering remains of the book. "Too bad all our information on it has been reduced to a pile of ash.”  
  
“Unlucky.”  
  
“Quite.”  
  
A baffled Jaskier looked on as they discussed the recent, _terrifying_ developments as casually as one might discuss the weather.  
  
“Sorry, have you _both_ lost your minds? We need to – we need - well, we need to do _something_ , certainly - ”  
  
Yen crossed her arms over her chest. “And what do you suggest?”  
  
“Uh - _anything?_ If it knows where we are, won’t it be coming for us?”  
  
“There’s little we can do about that until it gets here, Jaskier. No magic, remember? Even Geralt's signs are off.”  
  
“That’s – that’s _mad_! To your point, we’re vulnerable - we should run, _hide_ \- ”  
  
Geralt paused, frowning. “Not 'til Ciri arrives. Might be a good idea to relocate to Kaer Morhen when she does, though. More defensible.”  
  
The sorceress sighed again. It sounded like she was still trying to catch her breath, but wanted to play it off with condescencion. “She won’t be pleased to hear that, after making the long journey here.”  
  
“She’ll get over it. Let’s plan to head out at first light.”  
  
By that point, it looked as though the bard was about to burst - face bright red, cheeks puffed out while he struggled to comprehend just _how_ they were remaining so calm. It wasn’t until Geralt, noticing his agitation, took him by the hand and pulled him to his side.  
  
“Breathe, Jaskier.”  
  
He did, expelling a loud gust of air in the other’s face. “It’s just – I can’t be the only one worried about the literal _demon_ searching for us, can I? And these dizzy spells, or whatever they are – ”  
  
“I know.” The Witcher frowned. He, too, had no explanation. “I don’t like it, either. But Yen’s right. There’s not much we can do. If the demon does show its face, we’ll fight. Simple as that.”  
  
“And try not to trigger any more switches.” Yen piped up, gesturing at their hands. Both ignored her.  
  
“Sitting ducks.” Jaskier, quoting Annika. “I’m scared, Geralt.”  
  
The Witcher’s expression melted into one of care and concern. He stood, putting a hand on the back of the bard’s neck and drawing him in for a chaste kiss. He didn’t want to lie to the other man, or offer him false reassurances. Physical comfort, even the smallest gesture, seemed the best course of action.  
  
Suddenly, Yennefer’s butler burst into the parlor, looked harried. Jaskier reluctantly broke the kiss, though he kept Geralt’s hand securely within his own.  
  
“Perfect timing, Harold. Will you head to the market and pick up some supplies? We’ll be taking to the road tomorrow, and…” Yen glanced up, taking in the man’s flushed cheeks and slightly ragged appearance. “What on earth - ”  
  
“I tried to tell her to wait in the lobby, mistress, but she’s – she’s so _strong_ , I couldn’t - ”  
  
As radiant as the first hint of sunlight on a dreary day, Ciri popped her white-blonde head around the corner, eyes lighting up when she caught sight of the trio.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Some time later, in the dead of night, Annika pulled on her cloak and hood and exited the tavern - having stewed (and eaten and drank) her way through the initial agitation and anger, she decided to make her way back to the chateau.  
  
She passed an alleyway just outside its iron gates, not noticing when - shortly after - Harold stepped stiffly out of it, stumbling awkwardly onto the street. He sighed, shaking out his arms, humming as he straightened his crooked lapel. Aside from slightly rumpled silver hair, his appearance was impeccable.  
  
“Butler, butler, butler.” He lumbered awkwardly behind Annika, still a safe distance, as she searched in her pack for the key. He was muttering quietly to himself, trying different tones and pitches until he settled on a pretentious northern accent. “Where have I been all evening? Well, butlering around, naturally. Why do you ask?”  
  
His voice cracked and he cackled softly, though that abruptly dissolved into a coughing, hacking fit. After the episode subsided he scowled, tongue flitting out to swipe away a few specks of blood on his cheek. He smacked his lips, pulling a face at the sour taste they left in his mouth.  
  
“What is – _consumption_? Oh dear, Harold. Oh deary, dear, dear.” A giggle. "Least of their worries with me around."  
  
Annika entered the gates, letting them swing shut behind her, and slipped through the large double doors at the front of the manor. The butler lurched haphazardly forward, placing his hand between the gate and its latch before they could connect. Metal bit the palm of his hand but he didn’t cry out, didn't even flinch at the subsequent blood.  
  
Though he advanced with all the deadly silence of a skilled assassin, his movements were off, almost like an artist's caricature of a villain - on the very tips of his toes, back slightly hunched, long fingers wiggling and greedy, like they were itching to grab onto something.  
  
Crouched low in a bush, he watched through the window as she pulled off her hood, shaking out a massive amount of unkempt blonde curls and stopping in the doorway of the parlor. Finding it dark and empty - for everyone had long since gone to bed - she padded down the hall, heading straight to her quarters. He waited until she had rounded the corner before sliding a window open, clambering in, and tiptoeing excitedly after her. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> for @yusha annika's face morph, all it's missing is a third pic of a grumpy, skinny rat lmfao anyway it definitely turned out to be...a face
> 
> https://www.morphthing.com/image/105385321-alyssa-jpg-tashaaa-png?key=8cadf050316078c9f82bfa4e745acfe8


	76. Chapter 76

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idk why but Henry Cavill on his insta demanding I watch that sherlock movie “right meow” is sending me. While we’re on the subject I’m still not over the vid he posted where it sounds like he’s about to sacrifice his dog to obtain immortality, either
> 
> How are we feeling about chapter length? This and the next one - which I'll probs just post tomorrow - were originally going to be one big update but it was just waay too much all at once haha

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also I was going to make Casper really smug, like THE most annoying person on the planet, but I feel like all my OCs have turned out to be various subspecies of total asshole so I settled on making him annoyingly nice

Jaskier’s troubled expression melted away, replaced by a grin as soon as he caught sight of her heart-shaped face. He threw his hands up, shouting “Ciri!” before sprinting over and wrapping her up in a massive hug.  
  
"The _curse_ , Jaskier." Yennefer chastised and with an 'oh, fuck' he immediately released the giggling girl. Like setting a wound-up toy on the ground, she careened haphazardly around the table to Geralt, who gruffly repeated the sorceress's warning before she got close enough to embrace him.  
  
As she rolled her eyes and very sarcastically said it was nice to see him too, a newcomer stepped into the parlor in her wake. Jaskier put a hand on his hip, squinting at the stranger.  
  
“Who’s this guy?”  
  
Yen stood. “Casper. Thank you for coming on such short notice. I’m sorry if I’ve taken you away from anything important.”  
  
The man was around Yennefer’s age (relatively speaking) and very tall. Not quite Geralt’s height, but easily hitting the six foot marker – a fact that should have made him imposing but his lanky, gangly limbs and an almost uncomfortably good-natured smile negated all that.  
  
He had kind brown eyes, a pleasant amount of laugh lines and freckles – he spent a lot of time in the sun, it seemed - and wore his shoulder-length brown hair in a loose, low ponytail. His clothes were plain and unassuming, with a flowy – and _dirty_ \- white blouse tucked into belted brown trousers with iron buttons. If he was a sorcerer, he sure didn’t look it.  
  
At Yen’s apology, he laughed - he had a rich, honeyed voice. “Those dusty old bones have been in the ground for centuries. They can stand to wait a week longer, I think. Excuse my appearance - I haven't traveled by horse in centuries.”  
  
“Geralt, Jaskier - this is Casper. He’s an archeologist, specializing in artifacts from other worlds. Studied at Oxenfurt." She smirked. " _And_ came all the way from Aedd Gynvael to be here.”  
  
“Just a fancy way of saying ‘sifts through shit and dirt all day.’” The mage nodded cordially at them. “I’d shake your hands, but Yennefer here has warned me against such contact.”  
  
“After he’s just told us of the shit and the dirt? I’ll pass.” Jaskier winked at Ciri, drawing a light, chiming laugh.  
  
“That’s fair.” Casper chuckled – first impression, he was a painfully good sport - before turning to Geralt. “Though I can’t say I’d mind spending a day in the body of a Witcher. I would arm wrestle the strongest man I could find.”  
  
Ciri quickly shook her head over Geralt’s shoulder but the damage was done. The large man grunted, narrowing his eyes. He hadn’t stood when Casper walked in and had been glaring at him ever since.  
  
“Seems to be a hot commodity.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “Hire any demons lately?”  
  
“What? Gods, no.” Casper scratched his head, laughing nervously. “Unless you count the man who sorts my taxes, though I'd liken him more to a vampire with the way he's been bleeding me dry.”  
  
The Witcher listened for his heartbeat. Slow. Steady. Quickening just a touch while he waited for his joke to land. After a moment he relented, uttering a dismissive “hm.”  
  
“So, _Casper_.” In an effort to diffuse the tension, Jaskier perched on the edge of the table, tilting his head curiously to the side. “How do you know our lovely Yennefer?”  
  
“We go way back. I met her through - ”  
  
Yen cut in quickly. “A friend.”  
  
“Hang on. Archeologist…Aedd Gynvael...?” Jaskier gasped, eyes going wide as he turned to Geralt, nearly falling off the table. “Astrid – no, _Istredd_! Didn’t you duel him over this one?”  
  
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Yen, who responded with a withering look. “Really, Jaskier. How does one have so little _tact_ \- ”  
  
“I wouldn’t call it a duel.” The Witcher grinned, baring his teeth at the mage. “He showed up the day of, begging for death. Damn near shit his pants when I drew my blade.”  
  
“Aha-ha. _Classic_.” Jaskier caught Yen’s scolding glare and cleared his throat. “I mean – who wouldn’t?”  
  
Casper had taken a seat at the table, listening to the exchange with an unreadable expression. After a beat he let out a boisterous laugh, slapping his knee.  
  
"Oh - brilliant! I _do_ know Istredd. A good man, but he’s always falling head over heels for one woman after another. It’s a running joke at the dig site that we must keep all the figurines of female deities under lock and key whilst he’s around.”  
  
Yennefer groaned, head in her hands. “I should have known you would stoop to their level, Casper. Now, can we please discuss – “  
  
“Where’s Annika?” Ciri suddenly piped up – now that they were all seated at (or _on_ ) the table, it became apparent that they were short one member.  
  
An uncomfortable silence fell over the group until Yen finally spoke.  
  
“There was a…disagreement. My fault, really, but she knows how to push my buttons so expertly and she wanted to leave, so - ah, it might be best if I start from the beginning. Our situation has taken a turn for the worse.”  
  
“She wanted to leave, so - what? You let her? With a shapeshifter on the loose? That is incredibly shortsighted. And careless.” Ciri crossed her slender arms over her chest, giving them a harsh look. “Shame on you. _All_ of you.”  
  
Jaskier squirmed uncomfortably under her gaze - while it was a joy to watch the meek girl he had met years ago grow into herself, times like these reminded him of just who was raising her. With a sigh, he hopped off the table.  
  
“Ciri's right - it's not safe out there. I’ll go fetch her.”  
  
Geralt stood, catching his hand. “I’ll come.”  
  
The bard’s lips quirked. “Thank you, Geralt.”  
  
“Sounds like you’ve had a busy day.” Casper leaned back in his chair, adopting a serious expression. “Why don’t you fill us in, Yennefer?”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The duo searched the city, hitting all the spots where they thought they might find their wayward companion – the market, the creek, the cemetery. The tavern _several_ times, where they scored a baker's dozen of fresh-steamed dumplings. Unfortunately, her scent was nowhere to be found; clever as she was, Geralt knew she had taken the time to cover it - and her tracks - up, which forced them to acknowledge that (for the time being at least) she did not want to be found.  
  
Afternoon turned to evening, which in turn gave way to night and they returned to the manor empty-handed, finding the other three still seated around the table - though the adults were now drinking red wine. Ciri looked quite pale while Casper and Yennefer spoke conspiratorially at one end of the table. As soon as Jaskier and Geralt entered, their hushed murmurs came to an abrupt halt.  
  
The bard frowned, speaking around a mouthful of dumpling. “What’s going on?”  
  
“Why didn’t you _tell_ me?” Ciri cast a worried glance at Geralt. “They’re talking about - ”  
  
“ – Geralt’s recent behavior, nothing more.”  
  
At Yen's quick interruption, Geralt’s hand tightened ever-so-slightly around Jaskier’s. He could practically feel the Witcher's defenses going up. “And?”  
  
“Something has been troubling me ever since our… _encounter_ with the entity.” Yen was choosing her words very carefully. “Do you remember asking me a question before it happened?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s just – you inquired, quite adamantly, after our location. You _really_ don’t remember?”  
  
" _No_. Why - "  
  
“Geralt, they want to - ”  
  
Yen brusquely cut the girl off again. “Don’t be an alarmist, Cirilla. That was just a hypothetical.”  
  
“Um – _what_ was a hypothetical?” Jaskier stepped forward, releasing Geralt’s hand. “You’re being awfully cagey, Yennefer.”  
  
At that, Casper set down his goblet. “We were simply discussing what precautionary measures we should take in case the Witcher is...well, in case he's been compromised.”  
  
“’Compromised?’” Blue eyes narrowed. “You know, you haven’t said his name yet - it’s _Geralt_. Geralt of Rivia. Not ‘the Witcher.’”  
  
“Haven’t I? My apologies.” Casper’s warm brown eyes looked almost too sincere. “I’m only playing devil’s advocate. _If_ the demon has gotten into your head, it could use you - ”  
  
“Enough.” Geralt ground out, shoulders squaring and tensing with each word the sorcerer spoke.  
  
“ - since you could break out of any ordinary binding and easily overpower us, we should - ”  
  
“ _Binding_?” Jaskier turned to Yennefer. “What the _hell_ is this? What is he - ”  
  
“If you would just listen - before you arrived, I was informing Yennefer and Cirilla that _dimeritium_ would be a a safer, more secure alternative, just in _case_ \- ”  
  
“I said _enough_ ,” Geralt hissed, slamming his palm down and using it as leverage to draw closer to the mage, leaning all the way over the table – his voice was low and dangerous, but brought silence to the room, “you want to chain me up like an ill-behaved mutt?” A whisper tickled his ear - _**he does**_ \- and he paused, swatting at the air around it as if to ward off a fly. The action caused Casper to back up in his seat, caused Yennefer's forehead to crease in concern. “What’s next?” The voice giggled. _**A cage**_. “A cage? _Fuck_ you. And fuck you, too, Yen.”  
  
“Geralt - ”  
  
He felt Jaskier’s hand snake around his arm, trying to pull him back, but he shook it off. “This conversation is over. Ciri. Bedtime.”  
  
Normally the girl would have put up a fight, but the grave look on his face had her slipping out of her seat, casting an unsavory glance at Casper before following them out of the room. Geralt flinched when he heard them resume their conversation in the parlor.  
  
Casper, sounding shaken. “I was only trying to help - ”  
  
“I know.” Yen sighed. “He’s not right. We'll have to keep an eye - ”  
  
An eye on what - him? As if he was a danger?  
  
Their voices faded until they were nothing more than vibrations in the walls and he quickly rounded the corner and made his way to the guest hall, Ciri and Jaskier hurrying to keep up on either side of him. The paranoia and panic that had gripped him moments before had already started to ebb away, leaving him cold and uncertain.  
  
“Geralt, are you all right?” That was Jaskier, large eyes searching the other man’s impassive expression.  
  
“I won’t let them do that to you. Told them as much before you got there.” Ciri, her little voice deadly serious. It returned a small amount of warmth and comfort. “’Over my dead body,’ I said.”  
  
Jaskier gasped. “Ci- _rilla_ Fiona! Take that back!”  
  
The Witcher, on the other hand, snorted, a large hand going to ruffle her flaxen hair, pausing when he thought better of it. He settled on a fond smile instead. “’Course you did.”  
  
“I mean, it’s absolutely ridiculous.” The girl shook her head, tossing one last pointed glare over her shoulder. “To suggest a demon has gotten to _you_ , of all people.”  
  
Geralt’s brow furrowed and he lapsed into silence, listening as Jaskier and Ciri went on to discuss how preposterous the idea was. To them, it seemed impossible – Witchers were generally impervious to such magic. He had learned at a young age, under Vesemir’s tutelage, how to put up steel walls around his mind. He rarely – if ever – let them down.  
  
Perhaps assuming those walls were impregnable was their first mistake.  
  
After they dropped Ciri off and returned to their room – one of the guards informing them that Yennefer had put the chateau on high alert, doubling security – Jaskier started undressing, occasionally casting nervous glances at the Witcher as he did.  
  
“What is it, Jaskier?”  
  
“It’s just – did you really ask Yennefer that? You know, before?”  
  
“As far as I remember, no.”  
  
“Well, then…does that mean she was lying?”  
  
“No. She has no reason to." Geralt felt a flash of anger and regret as he slipped his black linen shirt over his head. "Damn it. I should have stayed. Listened to what she had to say. I don't know what came over me, but the second that fucking prick mentioned dimeritium I,” he paused, candlelight casting long shadows across his face, “I felt…”  
  
“I know, Geralt. He was out of line. We'll sit down with her first thing tomorrow, before we head out. See what she's - ”  
  
“I don’t trust him.”  
  
“Really?" Jaskier puffed out his cheeks. Sure, Casper looked good on paper and _seemed_ like he wanted to help, but he had suggested locking Geralt up so casually. "I think he means well, but...he's a little too nice, isn't he?"  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“And he - ”  
  
Seated on the edge of the bed now, Geralt imperceptibly hunched his shoulders, a hand coming up to massage his temples. “Can we talk of something else?"  
  
"Sure, sure." Jaskier hopped onto the other side of the mattress, bouncing a little and tugging on the larger man's arm until he complied and laid down beside him. "Actually, while we were looking for Annika in the cemetery, I started asking myself what our next happy ending will look like."  
  
"Next?" He grunted as the wiry body pressed against his started shimmying around, until the bard finally managed to find a comfortable position that allowed him to gaze into thoughtful golden eyes while they spoke. "And how exactly did the cemetery lead to that?"  
  
"They always put things into perspective, don't they? Make you think. About where you'll be in the next few years, where you'll eventually kick the bucket. We had the coast, and that was supposed to be it, but now...well, a _positive_ way of looking at it is that we get a second chance. And honestly, I _did_ find the constant smell of fish and bait a bit underwhelming..."  
  
The Witcher tilted his head to the side, looking out through the sliding glass door to the right of their bed. They were on the second floor and it opened to a balcony, which they had used for some _less_ pensive activity just the night before. That night, as blissful as it was, now felt like a years' old memory.  
  
"You shouldn't expect to find one with me, Jaskier.”  
  
He pulled a face. "That's awfully morbid."  
  
"No. It's honest. Happy endings are for storybooks."  
  
"Come _on_ , Geralt – humor me. Where do you see yours taking place?”  
  
“Hm." A heavy exhale blew the bard's fluffy bangs out of his face. "Anywhere with you.”  
  
He propped his elbows up on the Witcher’s chest, cradling his chin with his hands and sticking his lower lip out in a pout. Beneath the sheets, their legs were tangled together.  
  
“That’s lovely and all, but I’m being serious. The coast was my idea. A brilliant one, but – well, you saw how it turned out.”  
  
Geralt sighed, deciding at last to indulge the bard’s ridiculous fantasy. As previously stated, he didn’t believe in happy endings and certainly didn’t think – as Jaskier seemed to – that he was owed one. He had to admit, however, that his mind occasionally wandered back to the same place in the dark hours of the night, when the bard was snoring softly on his shoulder.  
  
“The abandoned villa we visited. With the cobblestone bridge. And the orchard.”  
  
“The..?" Jaskier wrinkled his nose. "Wait, I think I remember - it feels like autumn year-round there, doesn’t it?”  
  
“All the trees have orange leaves.”  
  
“And the air is always crisp. Beautiful place. _Visited_ is kind of a stretch, though - didn’t a Kikimore queen make her nest in the cellar?”  
  
“She did, until I killed her.”  
  
“Right, right. Brought the whole thing down on her head.” He cringed at the memory of watching the Witcher sift through gargantuan insect guts for ingredients. “It’s a fixer upper, to be sure, but…all right. Let’s make it happen.”  
  
“Not that easy.” The Witcher frowned, his thumb and pointer finger idly twirling a lock of brown hair. “Staying in one place for long isn’t safe. There will always be someone coming for me, for one reason or another, and the coast was a risk I’ll not take again.”  
  
“Have you forgotten who you’re talking to? There’s a price on my head in at _least_ five major cities and I’m fairly certain if I ever cross Nilfgaardian borders again I’ll be killed on the spot. For debauchery. _A-a-and_ public indecency. But really, I was only a little drunk, and that jester stole my clothes. What, was I _not_ supposed to march straight to the tailor with a drinking horn covering my…well, maybe not.” Geralt had been forced to break into the castle dungeons to save him from execution. Also spent most of his savings bribing the watch guard after they'd been caught. “Still think it’s puritanical nonsense. Anyway, what I’m trying to say is fuck all of that. As soon as this new _problem_ is resolved we’re finding that villa and if anyone tries anything I’ll, uh…hm. I guess I’ll have to give them the business?”  
  
A snort. “’The business?’”  
  
"They won’t see it coming.” He sat up on the other's lap and started punctuating his words by jabbing his fists in the air. “A swing here, a punch there, give ‘em the one-two - ”  
  
Geralt was chuckling now, grunting in surprise and catching one when it nearly clocked him in the jaw. “I’m sure they’re shaking in their boots.”  
  
“Oh, most _definitely_. Enemies of Geralt beware.”  
  
Still chuckling, he brought the hand to his lips, pressing a soft kiss to slender knuckles. “You’re fucking ridiculous.”  
  
“Yeah. Yeah, I’ll give you that.”  
  
Jaskier settled back down on Geralt’s bare chest, fine silver hairs tickling his cheek. He sighed happily when a brawny arm snaked around his middle and pulled him closer still. He quickly fell asleep, thoughts of fresh-picked apples and cool autumn nights by the fire with Geralt swimming in his head.  
  
The Witcher, on the other hand, was not so easily soothed. Remembering that a demon was out there somewhere, perhaps down the street, he remained alert. He did, however, allow himself small moments to indulge in cuddling up against the warm body beside his own, murmuring the sort of sweet nothings that seemed to come easier when the second party was asleep.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Later in the night, Annika returned to her room. She slipped off her cloak, her blouse, her trousers – too drunk, too tired to deal with the confusing, far too complex underclothes Yennefer forced her to wear, she decided to just sleep with them on instead of rifling through her things for a nightgown. The amount of clothes these people wore for even the simplest of tasks was a pain in the arse, really, give her an old sheet and a sewing needle and she’d be right as ra –  
  
A creak outside her door gave her pause. It was followed by a polite knock. Only one person in this manor had the decency to knock and she did _not_ want to deal with his ridiculousness at this hour. She already had to put up with the guards and their relentless, _irritating_ questions regarding her whereabouts - the butler was likely here to chastise her for tracking in mud, or…  
  
Another light rap had her groaning, stalking over and flinging the door open. “Fuck off, Harold. I’m not in the…”  
  
Her voice died in her throat when the faint smell of rotten eggs wafted up to her nose and she immediately recoiled. The butler lingered in the threshold of the door, hands gripping its head jamb and allowing him to lean menacingly forward, feet barely on the ground.  
  
“You’re not Harold.”  
  
“That obvious?”  
  
“You reek.” Annika continued edging backwards, eyes darting to the alchemy station at the corner of her room. She’d been tinkering with aether and vermilion the night before, trying to create a more powerful version of Geralt’s flash bomb after learning they’d be functioning without chaos for a time. The outcome - a brilliant, scarlet-and-orange liquid, like sunset in a bottle - sat in a jar not too far off. If she could reach it… “Why are you here?”  
  
“Just checking in on one of our regulars. You stopped calling on us – everything all right?” He released the frame with a creak, taking an awkwardly large step into the room - too large for the length of his legs - and tittering when she flinched. “Say, what’s with the little ball of energy sleeping down the hall?”  
  
Dread twisted in the pit of her stomach. “Don’t fucking touch her.”  
  
“But she's so _shiny_.” He cocked his head, noticing the bottle she had been inching towards. “What’s with the hostility? We have a mutual friend - Ar’gel says hi, by the way.”  
  
“That thing is not my friend.”  
  
“Business partner, then. Wanted me to thank you for giving him artistic freedom on that last curse. I heard it was broken by an admission of true love.” A breezy laugh. “Always such a romantic, that one. Speaking of, mind telling me where they are? This place is a maze and there are _far_ too many sorcerers milling about for my liking, neutered or not.”  
  
Annika remained silent.  
  
“What – rat’s got your tongue?”  
  
“It’s cat.”  
  
“Potato, potato.” He pronounced both words the same, with a hard 'a,' flicking a ball of lint from his shoulder and looking bored. “Apples, more apples.”  
  
“You’re fucked.”  
  
“Not more so than you, my dear.”  
  
It was a dead-end conversation going nowhere, Annika realized. She tried a different tactic, raising her hand so confidently that even she might have bought the bluff.  
  
“Give me one good reason why I shouldn’t send you back to that hellscape one limb at a time.”  
  
“That’s harmful terminology, you know. We prefer _just_ hell - adding ‘scape’ makes it sound so grim. As for your reason, well, I’m fairly certain _that_ ,” with a dramatic flourish, he pointed at her hand, “is out of commission.”  
  
Before her brain registered that he had even moved, Vrart was across the room, snatching her wrist and holding it in a vice-like grip. She cried out, tried tearing it free – when that didn’t work she blindly pawed at the desk for the bomb. Her fingers brushed it, caused it to topple over but without the big to-do of throwing the bottle, it only released a puff of colorful smoke. He laughed, tightening his hold until he heard a soft crunch.  
  
The pain brought her to her knees and he happily followed her down, crouching and studying her agonized expression with laser-sharp focus. His eyes flicked to the wrist trapped within his fingers and as he spoke, he used his teeth and free hand to rip a strip of cloth from the bottom of his shiny black overcoat, stuffing it in her mouth.  
  
“You’re quite popular back home - ah, ah. No biting. Anyway, not many would sacrifice so much just – for what? A bit of revenge? Sad to hear about your sister but, like you, she was no angel. Took advantage of our services just as often. Runs in the family, I guess.”  
  
She spat the makeshift gag out to speak but he slapped her hard enough to stun and put it right back in.  
  
“What – you didn’t know? Well, it’s true. You made her a martyr, but martyrdom covers up a multitude of sins. These hands of yours are incredible, by the way. I can’t seem to look away. Hard to believe they hold so much power – they’re so... _so_ ,” he lifted it to his mouth, and she could only watch in horror - thrashing and kicking violently, to no avail - as he popped her pinky finger between his lips and bit down. Mouth full, he murmured, “mm - _fragile_. That's the word I was looking for.”  
  
Annika’s screams were muffled by the cloth and he wished, oh he _wished_ he could remove it and drink them up like a fine wine. Instead, he settled on making obscene sounds as he cracked the bone, felt the rush of blood on his tongue. He watched in delight when eventually, he released her wrist and her hand fell limply out of his mouth to the floor with a thump, a bloodied stump all that remained of her littlest finger.  
  
"Not bad. A _little_ gamy." He licked his lips, tapping her cheek when he saw her eyes start to flicker back in her head. "No sleeping. Not yet. Look, I'll cut you a deal - tell me where they are and I'll let you keep the rest.” 


	77. Chapter 77

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for double posting! I accidentally hit post instead of save draft earlier and died a little inside. Anyway I'm putting this up now because I have a buttload of work to do this weekend and I just quit smoking and I'm mad about BOTH (don't smoke! never smoke! if you do I'll write a whole chapter of Geralt sternly telling you not to!)

Geralt felt restless, even with the bard snuffling softly in his ear and occasionally muttering something about pudding. His arms and legs were wrapped about the Witcher's sturdy frame like a cocoon and he could plainly hear the crickets chirping and toads ribbiting peacefully outside, audible through the balcony door. There was a strange feeling under his skin that itched and after hours of trying to find out what it was and scratch it, he decided to walk the manor's perimeter to try and clear his head.  
  
He carefully extracted his limbs from the slumbering starfish, smiling softly at the disgruntled moan his actions drew. Slipped on a plain linen shirt, a pair of trousers, and the harness that held his sword. As he rolled up his sleeves, he watched a still-sleeping Jaskier furrow his brow and, in his absence, curl up around a large pillow with a sigh.  
  
With one last tender glance he closed the door, padding down the torch-lit hall and inhaling deeply. A heavy silence had fallen over the empty halls and it smelled like humidity with a hint of rain. He had been awake for the rain, a quick shower that brought a small amount of relief after such a stifling day.  
  
Another scent lingered in the background but it was too faint, too distant to place. He had been burying his face in Jaskier's hair for most of the night and perfumed oil was now trapped in his nostrils, strong notes of geranium with a hint of orange peel.  
  
It wasn’t until he had reached the eastern end of the guest hall that he realized what it was.  
  
_Blood_.  
  
With a curse, he took off towards it. Wherever it was coming from wasn't far off now, the acrid stench nearly suffocating him with its potency. The pleasant florals of Jaskier's hair were long gone. He heard a labored, muffled wail.  
  
_Vomit_.  
  
Fuck. Ciri's room - it wasn't far. She had been so worried about him, had gone in for a hug but stopped herself and, with a sincere smile, told him it would all be okay. For whatever reason, he had believed her.  
  
_Fear_.  
  
It wasn’t Ciri’s room. Hers was down the hall and the door to this one was slightly ajar, a small amount of candlelight creating a flickering, orange cone in the darkened hallway. Who had put out the torches here? They lined the stone walls and every other part of the keep was bathed in their warm glow but here, here he found only shadows. A cursory touch - cold, as if they had been out for hours.  
  
Where were the guards?  
  
Another wavering sound that reached a keening peak before petering off. Geralt didn’t knock – having already drawn his blade, he kicked the door open, nearly sending it flying off its hinges.  
  
The scene inside was more horrific than anything he could've prepared himself for. Annika was curled up on the ground, batting weakly at Harold as he licked the blood from her hands. No, not Harold. Though his back was to Geralt and he wore a different face, the Witcher knew.  
  
It was the demon.  
  
She was missing two fingers and the rest on that hand were bent at odd angles. It looked as though she had been badly beaten, bruises forming on her face with more visible through the tears in her underclothes. There were splatters of blood and a small puddle of something else, foamy and yellow, like bile, on the floor beneath her. She was gagged, but upon hearing Geralt enter, life came back to her and she spat the cloth out.  
  
Vrart still hadn't turned around, though he had released her hand and started suckling his own fingers to clean them off. The way he smacked his lips, chewing and crunching loudly, made the Witcher's blood boil.  
  
"You fool," her voice was weak and she had difficulty speaking around a fat lip but there was still fire and ferocity in her eyes that intensified when she saw him prepare to swing his blade, " _run_ \- "  
  
He didn't. Instead, he brought the sword down with every intention of cutting his target in half, hopefully killing it in one hit. At the same time, Vrart's shoulders started shaking and just before the blade could reach the center of his skull he popped his fingers out of his mouth, raised his hand, and snapped.  
  
The effect was immediate and the Witcher froze in place, arms shaking with effort while they supported his sword, which had halted less than an inch from its intended target. Annika let out a hopeless cry, trying to move but finding her body unresponsive. Vrart casually ducked to avoid the weapon as he straightened out his long legs and stood, brushing off the front of a ripped uniform.  
  
"I was _nearly_ done tenderizing my meat. Troublesome, but it really does add to the flavor." Vrart snapped again and the light left Geralt's eyes, leaving them dull and hollow. His arm went limp, the tip of his sword - still clutched in his hand - scraping against the floor. "Ah, but it's for the best. Not much of a talker, this one. I was moments away from swallowing her whole."  
  
"Fight it, Geralt, you fucking cowa - "  
  
The demon gave Annika a sharp kick to the ribs and she wheezed, body curving around the blow. His eyes then flitted up to Geralt, pitch black with streaks of yellow illuminated by the dancing candlelight.  
  
"Tell me, where do frogs deposit their savings?"  
  
Geralt remained silent, his shoulders and back stiff as a board. Vrart groaned.  
  
" _Speak_."  
  
It took a moment but eventually he did as he was told. His voice was off, the words coming out stilted and wrong.  
  
"In river banks."  
  
Vrart clapped his hands, letting out a wicked laugh. "Precisely! Oh, that one never gets old. Well done. Truss her up for me, will you? Like a suckling pig. I might fancy a snack later, if our next stop doesn't fill me up."  
  
Geralt complied, lumbering over to the bed and silently ripping the sheets into strips. Annika started writhing and screaming frantically when he placed a knee on her back, pinning her as he went to work, though her voice was spent and barely reached the other end of the room, let alone the ears of someone who might come to her aid.  
  
When he was done he stood, hands covered in blood.  
  
“I _do_ so want to see the songbird before we go.” Vrart floated over, a long finger absentmindedly brushing a strand of silver hair from Geralt's face and leaving behind a dark red streak. “Where is he?”  
  
“No!” Snot, blood, and involuntary tears tracked Annika's bruised face, her cheek squelching in a mixed puddle of all three as she tried angling herself to look him in the eyes. The bindings were tight and agonizing on her mutilated hand, her arms pinned awkwardly behind her back with the same knot that bound her ankles. “I know you're in there! Think about what you’re doing - ”  
  
The muscles in Geralt's neck were so tense it looked like his veins might burst. “Our room. Sleeping.”  
  
“Wonderful. Let’s pay him a visit, shall we?”  
  
Vrart took the Witcher’s hand, leading him out of the room. Annika’s panicked cries echoed after them, ringing in his ears.  
  
“Geralt - _Geralt_!” Her voice cracked heart-wrenchingly as the door was closed and secured behind them. “Don’t _do_ this - ”  
  
Her words fell on deaf ears and before she knew it, they were gone.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
With an annoyed groan, Jaskier roused himself from a deep, deep slumber, the casing of the pillow leaving indents on his cheek. What time was it? Something had woken him, but he couldn't...  
  
It wasn't until his hand groped blindly at the other side of the bed, finding it empty, that he realized what it was. Geralt. Geralt was gone.  
  
Bleary blue eyes struggled to blink away the remnants of sleep and he placed his feet on the ground beside the bed, surveying the room. Empty.  
  
"Bloody hell." He clumsily pulled on the pants he had slipped off just hours ago, tucking his white nightshirt into them and stretching. He had slept funny and there was a terrible crick in his neck. "Where - "  
  
As if on cue, the door to their bedroom swung open with a low creak. Jaskier's face brightened at the familiar figure standing in its threshold. "Geralt! Where the blazes did you wander off to? I was having the strangest - "  
  
He had been about to move closer when someone stepped out from around the eerily still, eerily silent Witcher, giving him pause.  
  
"...dream." He finished, squinting. "Wh - _Harold_?"  
  
The butler flounced into the room, allowing Jaskier a good look at his face. On it was a manic grin that twisted his features and it was so horribly familiar the little hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up, a chill running down his spine.  
  
"Mm, no. Guess again."  
  
Oh, shit.  
  
“Vra – er - _Val_...bollocks.” At a loss for what to call it, he simply shook his head and settled on a not-so-confident, “ _you_.”  
  
“Oh, come on. You can say it. I’m already here, aren’t I?” Vrart hung playfully off Geralt’s arm. “Say it. Say my name. Just _say_ it - ”  
  
“I will _not_.” Worried eyes tried meeting the Witcher’s but found no sign of recognition. All at once, his strange behavior throughout the day made sense and the bard could have kicked himself for not listening to Yen earlier. “Of course it’s a spell, Jaskier, you _donkey_. Gods, Geralt, are you hurt? Can you hear me – can you speak?” His increasingly panicked questions were met with silence and a blank expression. “How did you - "  
  
"Get in his head? Easy." He tapped the Witcher's skull, garnering no reaction. "I knew the curse alone wouldn't cut it - too strong, this one. Actually, it was _your_ soft mind that let me in so willingly. While he was banging around in there, of course. After that it was just a matter of wearing him down, sowing fear and doubt and messing with his sense of self. Didn't you notice him behaving strangely? Tsk, tsk."  
  
_Fuck_. He had assumed that was part of the curse, or a side effect of being inside a human body...not...  
  
"Oh, no. O-o-kay. _Okay_. It’s going to be all right, Geralt, just…” Jaskier's gaze traveled downward, noticing the red stains on the Witcher’s hands, “um…wh-whose is that?”  
  
Geralt stood stock still, like a statue, until Vrart gave him a little nudge and cooed, “go on, tell him.”  
  
“Annika’s.”  
  
It sounded as if he was talking in his sleep. Beside him, Vrart made a series of obnoxious hacking and gagging noises until he coughed something up. He parted his lips and stuck out his horribly long tongue to display what looked to be the bloodied remains of a severed finger.  
  
Jaskier’s hand flew to his mouth and he fought the urge to vomit as the demon giggled and curled his tongue back round it, swallowing it whole once more.  
  
If that belonged to Annika…gods, what did it do to her? Was she - ?  
  
Tears sprang to his eyes at the thought but he forced those back as well, face displaying as courageous a mask as he could muster.  
  
“Th-that’s enough. Let him go.”  
  
“Oh? And what would I get in return?”  
  
“You need a body. What about mine?” Jaskier spoke resolutely, noticing Geralt flinch as though someone had flicked him on the nose. That had to be a good sign. Encouraged, he continued. “Demons like deals, right? You can have my body on the condition that you let him go.”  
  
Vrart paused, tilting his head to the side and giving the bard a once-over. After a moment he burst into laughter.  
  
“ _That_? It’s not nearly as valuable as you seem to think. Like that sigil, just there? You've already been touched by death. Besides, I can see things you can’t - your vulnerabilities, for one.” The demon stepped forward – Jaskier matched it with a yelp and a hurried step back, hand protectively covering the scar on his chest, just visible through the open ties of his blouse. “Daily tavern visits? Cirrhosis. Menage a trois - ” Vrart feigned a shocked gasp “ - with no protection? _Syphilis_. Though I think at the end of the day, that mouth of yours will be your undoing.”  
  
Jaskier ignored a small pang just below his ribs. A dull ache in his throat. It was trying to get to him, as it had Yennefer. Geralt. He wouldn’t let it.  
  
“You’re not getting in my head. I happen to know for a fact that I don’t have either of those.”  
  
“Not yet, no, but you’re missing the point. Keep up, will you? I don’t need to, for I can already see all that you are – which, if I’m honest, is the barest smidge above nothing.”  
  
Vrart’s tongue darted out to wet his lips, words quickening with excitement. The atmosphere in the room intensified, an uncomfortable pressure that bore down on Jaskier’s narrow shoulders, and each castrating sentence had the sensation worsening exponentially.  
  
“The point is, your late-night chats about ‘happy endings’ with this one are laughable. Let's pretend, for a moment, that you're going to make it out of here alive - I’d say, at the rate you're going, you’re about two decades away from drowning in a pool of your own vomit outside the tavern while onlookers shake their heads and say ‘he died as he lived – spewing _shit_.’ And _that’s_ assuming you don’t get shanked in an alley for talking back to the wrong brute first. So _no_ , thank you. My master doesn’t want your weak, worthless, _pathetic_ mortal body with all its impending health hazards and petty, _petty_ hang-ups and frankly, that you even thought to offer speaks volumes on the self-importance of humans.”  
  
“Could’ve just said no.” Jaskier muttered, pushing back against the insecurity and doubt swirling in his mind. They weren’t his. He _wasn’t_ like that - his life meant something. He had to get out, get help...the balcony door wasn't far, but he had to be quick -  
  
“Maybe. But where’s the fun in that?” Vrart paused, squinting to check the moon’s position in the sky and sighing. “Alas, I have a deadline, and _you_ won’t have to worry about whatever bleak future awaits for much longer. I wish you better luck in your next life.” He turned to the Witcher, waving an airy hand at Jaskier. “Kill him.”  
  
“Kill - ? _Why_? Ger – Geralt! Nono - bad Witcher! Stay back!”  
  
“True love is a pesky thing. Best nip it in the bud before it comes back to bite me in the ass.” The demon elongated the 's,' clicking his tongue when Geralt reached for his blade. “No, no, _no_. With your bare hands. Make it _messy_.”  
  
He released the pommel of his sword and stalked towards Jaskier, who immediately scrabbled backwards. He felt a small glimmer of hope when he bumped into the glass door but decided to try reaching the Witcher one last time. The things he did for love.  
  
“Look at me, Geralt. I know you’re in there. We love each other, remember?” He plastered himself to the glass, feeling its cool surface through the thin material of his nightshirt. His hand found the small divot but when he tried sliding it open, it didn’t budge. Locked. Well, that wasn’t great. “The villa – do you remember that? We’ll go there, and everything will be - _aah_!”  
  
The Witcher lunged and he barely ducked in time, dropping to the floor as the heavy body above slammed into the glass, causing it to crack. Thankfully, in his entranced state, Geralt seemed to lack his impeccable reflexes. In the time it took for him to recover, pushing himself off the door and shaking his head, Jaskier had managed to crawl into the sliver of space between the bed and the wall.  
  
Geralt snarled, grabbing the spherical wooden decorations on either side of the base of the bedframe and flipping the entire thing over with a loud crash, exposing his prey. The mattress flopped out of its frame and into the pillar candles they had left burning down on the nighstand; they caught quickly on the fine white draperies, filling the room with ominous orange hues.  
  
Jaskier cried out as a hand latched onto his ankle with an iron grip, violently yanking him back and dragging him along Yen’s expensive carpet – it burned the skin of his elbows and knees but that was the least of his worries; his ankle was released and he rolled onto his back, wild eyes gazing up in terror while Geralt, nothing more than a massive, hulking shadow above, wound up to deliver a crushing blow with his boot.  
  
“Not the face, not the – _fuck_!”  
  
Another narrow dodge, Jaskier rolling again, body smacking into the glass and causing the crack from before to spiderweb. There wasn’t enough space to get away completely and Geralt’s boot caught the billowing sleeve of his blouse, pinning him but he managed to rip the material and tear his arm free, scrambling to his feet.  
  
He knew he likely wouldn’t survive even a single hit – the way the wood beneath the carpet snapped and groaned in protest when the Witcher stomped down let him know he wasn’t holding back any of his raw, terrifying strength. Jaskier wasn’t accustomed to being on the business end of those fists but he’d seen bigger men fall to less than half of what Geralt was currently putting out.  
  
Vrart was laughing maniacally in the corner, not budging as flames licked at his shoes, singed the hem of his pants.  
  
“Slippery one, aren’t you?” He casually raised his arm, blowing out a small fire that had started burning through the material of his sleeve, leaving angry welts on the skin of his wrist. “Credit where credit is due – you’re a survivor. I like that. Makes for a far sweeter kill.”  
  
As he spoke, Geralt crowded his target back against the sliding door. He was seething, chest heaving, close enough that Jaskier could feel puffs of hot breath on his cheek. With no feasible exit, he whimpered, a large hand snatching the front of his shirt and lifting him off the ground. The second hand reared back, clenched tightly in a fist. Jaskier’s legs were thrashing violently, trying at least to kick out the glass behind him, but it was too thick and, accepting defeat, he stilled.  
  
Blue eyes stared helplessly into harsh gold ones. He spoke quickly, stumbling over his words in an effort to get them out before the blow came.  
  
“I love you, Geralt. This isn’t your fault, it's mine. I'm sorry, I should have - well, it doesn't matter now. Just know that our time together has meant the world to - ”  
  
There was a flash of recognition as the fist struck, diverting ever-so-slightly at the last second and crashing into the door, just a hair’s breadth from Jaskier’s face. The structure shattered completely upon impact and the hand that had been supporting his weight released him. He pitched backwards, landing heavily in a pile of glass on the balcony outside.  
  
The humid, stifled night air hit him full force and he sucked in a wavering gasp, forcing himself onto his knees and ignoring the searing hot pain as tiny shards stabbed into his elbows, his palms, his thighs. Geralt stood stiffly in the doorway, shoulders squared, jaw clenching and unclenching as he fought against some invisible force.  
  
Taking that as a sign to run, Jaskier grabbed hold of the railing and – with one last look back, watching Vrart emerge from the shadows of the room, hissing and cursing the Witcher’s inadequate performance – leapt over.  
  
He didn’t count on the ghostly pale hand that caught his pant leg, trying to drag him back over and into the depths of the burning room, where he knew he would most certainly perish. It was impossibly strong, rivaling even Geralt’s grip, but the weight of his body dangling over the railing gave him the advantage. He used it to kick himself free, plummeting down into the grass below.  
  
Geralt’s voice played in his head as he fell - _go limp, Jaskier, roll into the fall_ \- but it happened so fast, barely the blink of an eye, and his body involuntarily tensed.  
  
A horrible _snap_ rang out in the courtyard and he couldn’t hold back a scream, hands instinctively flying to the broken bone as he toppled over. Dazed, he nearly passed out when his fingers grazed something sharp and wet that protruded through a rip in his pants just above his ankle. He made the mistake of glancing down, saw white and red and immediately pitched sideways to empty the meager contents of his stomach.  
  
It’s just a bone. Just a broken bone. Just a terrible, horrible, _open_ \- no. Get moving. Get help. Geralt needs you.  
  
Sobbing, the world slanting dangerously, he tore his eyes from the carnage and tried to stand on one leg, immediately keeling back over. He settled on dragging himself along the wet grass, fingers digging into the mud for purchase. White-hot agony radiated through his leg with each movement but, through the veil of tears and sweat, he could see the west wing, could see Yen’s first-floor room. Just get across the courtyard. The light of a candle was visible through billowing linen curtains, a beacon in the darkness. Her sliding door was open. Just a little further…  
  
“ _Yen_!” His shout broke off into a ragged cry when a bump in the dirt jostled his leg, causing the broken bits of bone to grind together. He whined, squeezing his eyes shut as if that might will away the pain. It didn’t. “ _Yennefer_! ”  
  
Something balled up the back of his blouse and he saw a multitude of stars and too-bright lights when it flipped him over. Vrart stood above, still sporting the face of the poor butler though the messed white hair, ruined uniform, and gleeful expression gave away what truly lurked within.  
  
Jaskier could just barely see Geralt over the demon’s shoulder. Still standing on the balcony, still fighting that invisible battle. There was no outward expression on his face but he watched, watched so intently, and there was something in his eyes that was screaming –  
  
“I’d love to play this game all night,” Vrart placed a foot on Jaskier’s calf and started applying pressure. “but as I mentioned before, I have a deadline to meet.”  
  
The bard let out a thin scream, ribs pumping like bellows with each sharp inhalation as Vrart’s polished loafer bore down harder – his body twisted at the waist, trying to reach his leg, to pull it free, fingers scrabbling frantically at the shoe when he heard the broken bone creak, heard another whispered snap, felt the warm, sticky wetness of blood.  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
Vrart paused, looking up just as Yennefer barreled across the yard, Casper bringing up the rear. They both froze when he lifted his shoe; Jaskier’s relieved groan was cut short as it started pressing down on his throat.  
  
“Oh, poo. I’m outnumbered.” The bard burbled incoherently, face quickly turning shades of bright red and purple. “Come any closer and I’ll snap his neck.”  
  
Yen narrowed her eyes. She had instinctively raised her hands, wanting very badly to blast the shifter off the face of the earth, but Jaskier was trapped between them and she had no way of knowing who the spell would hit.  
  
“I have a feeling you’re going to do it either way.”  
  
“Hmm.” Vrart placed a finger on his chin, looking thoughtful. “No, I _was_ going to tear his vocal cords out with my teeth - ”  
  
He was cut off as Casper, muttering ‘fuck it,’ stepped forward and spoke a few words in Elder. Yennefer’s eyes widened in horror and she shouted for him to stop, but it was too late. A ball of fire had burst from his fingertips and Vrart was forced to remove his shoe and lurch away to avoid it – he wasn’t fully able to, however, and it caught the right side of his face and chest, sending him staggering back.  
  
“Aim at the things around it!” Casper, gesturing wildly at the monster. “It will - ”  
  
“No! It’s not safe – Jaskier - you'll _kill_ him - ”  
  
“It will kill all of us if we let it!”  
  
Casper prepared another projectile as he spoke – it sparked to life in his hands but immediately detonated, sending him to his knees with a shocked cry. The demon was standing with hunched shoulders, still recovering from the initial blow which had burned through half its face, the fabric of its shirt melted into its chest and left shoulder. It had only lost focus for an instant but, with its hold temporarily broken, the fog in Geralt’s head cleared.  
  
He reacted immediately, hoisting himself up onto the splintered wooden rail of the balcony and hopping over. He landed heavily on his feet in the grass below but barely registered the pain, rocketing across the courtyard like a bat out of hell. His body slammed into Vrart’s hunched form at full speed and sent them both sprawling to the ground a healthy distance away from Jaskier, who had curled in on himself, burying his face in the mud.  
  
Geralt rolled into the collision to lessen the blow and pushed himself up, snatching a fistful of its lily-white hair as he did. Before the demon could recover, he effortlessly used that leverage to drag it up and slam it back down with bone-breaking, earth-shattering force.  
  
“Piece of shit,” he hissed, trying to block out Jaskier’s muffled keens of pain as he placed a boot on the monster’s half-burned face, bearing down until he heard several cracks, smelled the sour tang of its foul blood and watched it water the soil below, “ _die_.”


	78. Chapter 78

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I have literally no idea what or where Aedd Gynvael is but for plot purposes and bc it sounds fun (and I want to describe all the cute, climate-appropriate clothes heheh) it is now a dig site in the middle of the desert booyah!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: omg i posted it instead of saving again I'm editing as fast as I can before my test but I'm sorry for any typos lolol also idk if anyone here plays league but i'm a toxic piece of shit so i do and just got the hextech swain skin, it looks exactly like henry cavill's geralt ooooof

Geralt prepared to deliver a killing blow with his sword when a horrid noise filled the air. It was slightly muffled and after a beat he realized the demon was wriggling around in the grass and _laughing_ , legs flailing, fists pounding the earth and leaving deep imprints as though it had just heard the most hysterical joke. He couldn’t see its face but could hear the bubble of blood and creak of bone quite clearly as it carried on.  
  
A spindly hand grabbed hold of his boot, surprisingly strong fingers gripping its sturdy material tight enough to cause discomfort, and started lifting it off. Disgusted, he plunged his blade into Vrart’s stomach, silver making the skin around it sizzle and burn. The laughter turned ragged and gasping but didn’t cease, even as he pried his foot loose to reveal a crushed face.  
  
Damaged beyond recognition but it deserved worse. It had hurt Jaskier. Had almost made him…he could remember the intent, how he had wanted to rip the bard apart, smash him up, tear him limb from -  
  
Not now. Don’t think about the fear apparent in wide blue eyes as he prepared to mutilate the goofy face they belonged to, the one he loved so much it barely – if ever – left his mind. Don’t think about the twisting peaks of Jaskier’s cries, catching the dull scent of his blood in the air while standing on that fucking balcony unable to move a single muscle but painfully aware of all that was happening -  
  
_Stop_. Secure the kill.  
  
The demon's body looked to be dying, evidence of that found in the growing puddle of red staining the ground beneath it. Its glamor was faltering and its hair started to cycle through different styles and colors - white, brown, black. Back to white again.  
  
Its body was morphing erratically as well and for a moment he saw his bard there, wheezing and bleeding out on the ground. One moment but it gave him pause, reminded him of what he had almost done in their room. It changed again, black hair growing out of brown, limbs shifting until they were lankier than Jaskier's square frame.  
  
For good measure, he dug the sword straight through Vrart’s abdomen and into the earth, pinning it in place. He heard Yen come up behind him but couldn’t tear his eyes from what remained of the slit-pupiled ones below. Even through the mess of blood and ocular fluid they leered at him.  
  
“It won’t be enough. We can't kill it like this - we have to get out of here. Even if we did catch it, we'd have no way of - "  
  
She sounded warbled and distant and Vrart’s bloodied skin began to swell and shift. His squirming stopped, laughter dying down to amused, breathy chuckles interspersed with unintelligible, guttural whispers. Yen’s eyes widened when she recognized one of the words among them – quickly, she grabbed Geralt's sleeve and dragged him back just as the form on the ground burst into a cloud of boiling-hot blood.  
  
The Witcher reacted quickly, raising one arm to cover his face while simultaneously turning his back and hunching over Yennefer, trying to use his body to shield her from the worst of the blast. Splatters that pelted the skin of his arm exposed by his rolled sleeves burned like white-hot needles.  
  
The spot where the demon’s body had been was an eyesore, blackened and ugly - the lush grass was withered, the mud beneath saturated in dark blood and gore. Wisps of smoke curled up and into the night sky.  
  
And Vrart – Vrart was gone.  
  
But Geralt could still smell it, a heady stench. Like a sentinel, he watched the yard – there, tiny black scales, blending almost seamlessly as they moved through the grass –  
  
A frantic noise from Jaskier distracted him and the little thing wriggling a few paces away escaped into the night.  
  
“Nono – ah, d-don’t touch it - _please_ \- ”  
  
“Stop moving - Yennefer, a little help?”  
  
Casper’s voice, tight with pain. He had ripped a strip of cloth from his tunic, covering the visibly broken bone in an effort to staunch the flow of blood. There was a lot of it and Vrart had ensured the break was anything but clean.  
  
This wasn’t right. The bastard couldn't get away - it needed to die. For what it did to Annika, to Jaskier…  
  
Jaskier. Geralt tore his eyes from the grass, turning to face him. The cloth was already soaked through and his hands were stubbornly trying to remove it, voice raising to impossible decibels as he stammered out a "just let me see, I need to _see_ \- "  
  
Casper was wary of touching him, especially when he so clearly didn't want it, but before Jaskier could tear the cloth off Geralt was there, taking his hands into his own and firmly guiding them back.  
  
Not a religious man in any way, shape or form, the Witcher found himself silently thanking whatever gods were listening when, as he carefully hoisted the pale-faced bard into his arms like a bride, he did not shy away – rather, his alarmed sounds quieted and he wilted into Geralt’s broad chest.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
With Jaskier safely in his arms, Yen escorted them to a secure room while Casper set off to find Ciri and Annika and hopefully reign in some of the mayhem Vrart had unleashed upon the manor. In addition to the fire that had utterly decimated their bedroom, he had eaten at least two guards and snapped the necks of several more.  
  
Yen decided to dismiss the remaining guardsmen after instructing them to bring her two traveling caravans around to the front of the manor. It was likely they wouldn’t have stayed much longer anyway, after seeing what had befallen their comrades.  
  
“How did you know?” Geralt asked suddenly, fingers absentmindedly brushing against the bare arm of the bundle cradled in his own. He couldn’t see Jaskier’s face as it was pressed tightly into his chest, though he was aware of a cold wetness seeping through the front of his shirt that made his heart ache.  
  
The bard had gone silent as soon as they left the yard, all color drained from his cheeks and Geralt was certain he had gone into shock. Every step should have been agony but he remained quiet, occasionally shivering and pressing himself further into the Witcher’s body.  
  
Yennefer looked like the slightest breeze might topple her. She frowned at the question.  
  
“What?”  
  
“To come looking for us.”  
  
“Ah. You have Annika to thank for that.” She visibly winced at the memory of the witch barging into her study late at night, covered in blood and so battered she had practically been forced to crawl. “She’d been bound, but…well, suffice to say the damage done to her hand ended up working in her favor. Though I fear she may have worsened it in the process.”  
  
Geralt averted his gaze. Bits and pieces were coming back to him but things were blurriest when he tried to recall barging into Annika’s room. Bloodied stumps where her fingers had been. Her screams, hoarse and desperate while he tied her up.  
  
“Is she…”  
  
“All right? Gods, no. But she’s alive.”  
  
“Her hand?”  
  
“Missing two fingers.”  
  
“Fuck.”  
  
“I wrapped it as best I could in the time I was given, but had to leave her in Cirilla’s care while I ran to fetch Casper. Thought I'd need his help fending y - ” she stopped short on the word but smoothly corrected herself, “fending off the demon, that is. And I was right. Ah, here we are. Lay him down - I've a few things to grab but I’ll need to look at that leg as soon as possible. The longer we wait, the worse it will heal.”  
  
They had arrived at a spare bedroom with a single bed. Geralt laid Jaskier upon it as gently as he could but the bard groaned at the loss of contact, fingers clumsily exploring the sheets beneath him. After a moment he cracked his eyes open. There were tears trapped in thick, dark lashes but when he saw the Witcher standing before him he breathed his name in the form of a soft, relieved sigh.  
  
“Geralt.”  
  
The journey from the yard to the room had caused the cloth loosely covering the injury to fall. It was hard to see the extent of the damage beneath the blood and grime but the tip of a bone protruded out from a ragged wound just above his ankle, gleaming wetly in the torchlight.  
  
Receiving no response from Geralt aside from a small squeeze, Jaskier started checking over his body, searching for the source of the pain. It pulsed and throbbed but also, curiously enough, seemed incredibly far away.  
  
Before he could re-discover his mangled leg Geralt caught his chin, directing his gaze back upwards, into his eyes.  
  
“Nothing to see there.”  
  
Chapped lips curved into a weak smile. His voice was small and dreamy. “Your nostrils flare when you lie to me, you know. Just the tiniest bit. See?”  
  
He reached up to poke Geralt’s nose but caught sight of the cut on his forearm from the pile of glass he'd fallen in. The bottom half of his sleeve was missing completely and blood had dripped and dried all the way down to his fingers.  
  
“Oh, bollocks. My favorite blouse.”  
  
Geralt caught his hand, trying not to think of why his sleeve might be ripped. “I’ll get you a new one.”  
  
“Can it be blue?”  
  
A snort – it was a small comfort that Jaskier was in this half-lucid state, not fully aware of the gravity of his injuries or much of anything, really. “It can be blue.”  
  
“Right, you two.” Yen padded back into the room, slightly out of breath. She pulled a stool up beside the bed and sat down. “Let me see.”  
  
She had grabbed a large pack of emergency healing supplies along with a series of delicate metal rods, pins, and screws. Geralt’s lips, which had been quirked in a small smile after his light exchange with Jaskier, formed a hard line when he caught sight of them.  
  
Before he could ask what they were for, Casper stepped into the room, looking alarmed. Yen raised a brow upon noticing he was alone.  
  
“The others?”  
  
"Down the hall. Cirilla has started stitching up the, uh…tall one. Wily, isn’t she? I offered to carry her here, thinking she might feel safer, but…” He glanced nervously at his pants. “Does she threaten everyone with castration, or was that just for me?”  
  
Yen scoffed as she pulled on a pair of gloves. Annoying to work around, but she wasn’t keen on switching bodies mid-operation. “That’s just Annika's way of saying ‘no, thank you.”  
  
“I’d hate to see ‘yes, please.’” Warm brown eyes found Jaskier, who was splayed out on the bed and peering at him in the baffled sort of way infants did when they didn’t quite understand what they were looking at. “How’re you doing?”  
  
“ _Marvelous_.” There was no sarcasm behind it, shockingly. He reached out to pet the Witcher but missed and ended up pawing clumsily at his face instead, drawing a disgruntled huff. “Geralt’s going to buy me a new…something or other. A thingamabob.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Love those. I also got you something.” Casper chuckled, pulling a flask out of his worn leather satchel. “Hard liquor. You know, for the - ”  
  
“ _Examination_.” Yennefer interjected, not wanting to alarm her patient or burst his calm little bubble. She wasn’t a healer by any means but she had learned enough under Triss to know that securing the break in the leg before her would require some rather grisly surgical ingenuity. “Thank you, Casper.” She handed a small vial of purplish liquid off to Geralt. “Pop half of this in there, will you?”  
  
He pulled off the cork, giving its contents a sniff. “Mandragora?”  
  
“And a bit of valerian root. Should work well with the alcohol, like an anesthetic.”  
  
Casper handed Geralt the flask and he gave that a sniff as well, eyeing the man suspiciously. He raised his hands in supplication.  
  
“It's only whiskey.”  
  
Satisfied, the Witcher went about administering it to Jaskier, who was starting to get fussy. And handsy. Casper continued speaking as he did, leaning casually against the nightstand and watching Yen work.  
  
“I know we're meant to leave for the Witchers’ keep, but…well, as I mentioned, I study phenomena like this at Aedd Gynvael. If I could get to my research there, I might be able to offer some insight on how to banish the demon without proper magic. See if we can’t end the curse, free Geralt…”  
  
At that, Geralt stopped listening, his shoulders tensing. None of them had yet acknowledged his involvement in the attack and it had gone without saying that they would wait until after Jaskier was stable to do so.  
  
Yen let out a soft hum. “More of a hike than I was expecting, but we'll take any help we can get. What do you think, Geralt?"  
  
He flinched at the sound of his name but recovered quickly. “About doing fuck all in the desert? Not much.”  
  
“It will put more space between us and the demon, though.”  
  
As she spoke, she used a slender knife to slice Jaskier’s pant leg open at the bottom seam, all the way up to his thigh. With the drugs starting to take hold his head lolled from side to side, eyes going in and out of focus while he watched her work.  
  
“At least buy me dinner first.” He burbled with a delirious giggle, and the sorceress sternly slapped his hand away when it came to poke at the visible piece of bone. “ _Eww_ , what _is_ that?”  
  
“Lay back, my dear. You’ll be somewhere else entirely in a moment.”  
  
“Ooh.” A sleepy, lopsided grin. “Will there be champagne?”  
  
He didn’t hear her response, eyes sliding shut almost immediately after speaking as the sedative took effect. The world around him faded to blackness and he let it go, soothed by Geralt’s presence at his side, gruff voice tickling his ear as he discussed their plans with Casper.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
As quick as it had gone, the world came back. Jaskier’s eyebrow twitched when he found his senses assaulted by the sound of…shouting? Voices, yes. Raised, most definitely. Perhaps not shouting but close to it.  
  
With a groan, he managed to force one eye open. The first thing he saw was Yen, blurry and seemingly miles away though she was still seated just there, at the end of the bed. Her back was to him and beside her stood another figure, much larger, also looking in the opposite direction. Had to be Geralt, with those shoulders. _Me-ow_ , Jaskier thought, wanting very badly to touch.  
  
The sentiment faded as the voices started to take shape, sound like actual words.  
  
“ – is a liability. We need to cuff him. _Immediately_.”  
  
That was Annika, wasn’t it? Oh, she sounded mad.  
  
“No. What we _need_ is to stabilize Jaskier. Cirilla, please, take her - ”  
  
Yen, pointing a gloved finger at the door.  
  
“She’s right. It can wait. He’s in bad shape, as are you - ”  
  
That was Geralt, taking a small step forward.  
  
“I don’t give a flying fuck!” The drunken amusement Jaskier had felt before and after waking faded rapidly as he became aware of the thick tension in the room, the argument making his head spin. “I do, however, care very much about the _demon_ using you like some fucked marionette - ”  
  
Marionette? Creepy. Jaskier tried propping himself up on his elbows but collapsed back onto the pillows, finding he had no strength. The tugging in his leg persisted, made worse when he tried moving it.  
  
Irriation was starting to seep into Geralt's tone. “Annika - ”  
  
“You think your precious bard is in bad shape now? He’s all that’s standing between you and it and trust me, it _knows_ \- ”  
  
“Will you take a fucking seat? You look like you’re about to - ”  
  
“Don’t touch me!”  
  
She recoiled when Geralt reached out to steady her but the action aggravated some injury and had her doubling over, arm curling protectively about her middle. Jaskier became aware of another voice, this one less familiar. Casper shortly stepped into view. Everyone looked strange and the effects of the drug made him in particular look far longer than usual. And sparkly.  
  
“Just settle down, everyone.” He turned to Yen as though she played judge, jury, and executioner for the group. “She’s right. Terrible timing, but she’s right. Now that we know it’s gotten in his head we really do need to start thinking about how we’re going to deal with - ”  
  
“Deal with me? I’m right here.” Geralt, likely making some scary face because Casper backtracked, looking imploringly to Yennefer. “Can’t look me in the eye? Is it because you nearly killed Jaskier with that spell - ”  
  
“Saving us all in the process.” He gestured to his right hand, which was bandaged. “I put myself at risk, too, you know.”  
  
“That supposed to make me feel better?”  
  
“ _No_ , I’m only trying – if you would just _trust_ \- ”  
  
Jaskier was finally able to prop himself up. Now, that _tugging_ \- what was it? He had figure it out so he could make it stop and help deescalate the situation before someone –  
  
With great difficulty, he sat up, hand accidentally brushing against something cold and sharp on the edge of the bed beside him. He glanced down and saw a bloody scalpel, a pair of scissors, tweezers. The white sheets beneath his fingers were stained red.  
  
“Oi. What’re those for?”  
  
All at once, at the sound of his voice, the shouting – and now it _was_ shouting, with Annika shouting at Geralt, Yen shouting at Ciri to remove her, Casper trying to play the voice of reason – in the room ceased. Geralt froze in place before turning to see Jaskier exploring his surroundings with a horribly confused expression. Slowly, because the room was still spinning, he turned his gaze to his leg to see what was making it feel so –  
  
Gold eyes widened. “Jaskier, don’t look - ”  
  
Too late. The bard’s mouth fell open in horror as he took in the sight of his leg. The skin was open, something pinning back fleshy flaps and there was _metal_ inside and he could see sinew and tendons and – and –  
  
Panic set in and his fingers immediately reached for the metal thing to yank it out – they wrapped around it, almost successful but suddenly the shouting resumed and his hands were removed. There was a pressure bearing down on his shoulders, pressing him flat into the bed. The mattress dipped at his side and he realized it was from someone sitting beside him and the pressure came from a pair of strong arms restraining him.  
  
“Geralt, the rest of the sedative - give it to him _now_!”  
  
Jaskier thrashed violently, landing a few good hits that had the Witcher wincing and tightening his grip. He was handed something and one arm released him, cradling his head as gently as it could while he struggled.  
  
Something cool was brought to his lips and he tried spitting the liquid out, fear and adrenaline coursing through his veins, but there was a hand on his throat massaging it down and before he knew it, he had swallowed it all. The effect was immediate - a heavy heat that started in the tips of his fingers and toes and spread like warm honey.  
  
After he had passed out, Geralt lowered him back down onto the pillows, looking ghastly pale. Yen drew back, wiping a bead of sweat from her forehead and shooting a glare at the rest of the group.  
  
“Are we done here?" She was met with silence. "Am I allowed to finish what I started, or shall we wake him back up and traumatize him some more?”  
  
Nobody dared talk back. Even Annika was mollified into obedience by the sight of Jaskier’s fingers digging into the open wound, grabbing his bone, the metal rod meant to maintain its position while it healed.  
  
From there, Yen was able to complete the job without interruption. Geralt looked on with a stony expression, barely blinking as he watched the intricate procedure. He kept two fingers on the soft underside of Jaskier’s wrist, silently counting each heartbeat, meticulously checking and re-checking for any sudden spikes or drops.  
  
The others had dispersed, started packing their things into the two round-roof caravans waiting outside. Eventually Yennefer stood, sighing heavily. The injury was wrapped as tightly as she dared, stitches slathered in an antibiotic ointment to stave off infection.  
  
“There. Would have preferred to deal with this the easy way, but...” She pulled off her gloves, shaking her head. “Healing will be slow. He’ll need crutches for weeks, maybe months. Bandage changes every other day.”  
  
“Thank you, Yen.” Geralt peered at the door, which had been closed and locked after the fight. Annika had raised her hand, prepared to...what? “I should check…”  
  
“No, stay with him. I’ll do damage control.” She offered him a sad smile, a light touch on his shoulder. “Bloody incorrigible, bursting in like that while I’m hands-deep in this one’s calf.”  
  
After she left, Geralt pulled the stool closer to the top of the bed and sat down. Jaskier was sleeping peacefully now - his neck was bruised, the imprint from the bottom of Vrart’s shoe clearly visible in the breaking daylight.  
  
The Witcher swallowed through a lump in his throat, hand coming up to touch the dark red and purple blotches. He was terrified by how easily the life coursing through the veins beneath the tips of his fingers could be snuffed out. All it would have taken was a few more seconds, a bit more pressure and just like that, Jaskier would be gone forever.  
  
A breeze came in through the open window and with it a whisper, soft as the sheets now covering the bard’s body.  
  
_**Do it**_.  
  
As if he had been burned, Geralt immediately went to pull his hand away but found he couldn't. The breeze persisted and with it the voice, echoing in his ear, and his fingers started tightening around Jaskier's neck, causing him to shift, closed lids screwing more tightly shut at the pressure though he did not wake.  
  
Fuck.  
  
He didn’t think twice, channeling all his strength into ripping his hand free. He stormed out of the room and down the hall, throwing open the front doors of the manor. The others were outside, packing their things.  
  
Annika was lazing about on the back of one of the wooden caravans, likely on a few painkillers of her own. When she saw him she shot up and spat out the bit of grass she’d been chewing on because he looked ready for a fight and she _might_ have been about to spell him just a couple hours prior.  
  
Yen was securing the horses, not noticing how agitated he was. “We’re almost ready to leave, Geralt. Can you carry Jaskier - ”  
  
“Do it.”  
  
All four stopped what they were doing, turning to look at him. He nodded to Casper, extending his wrists.  
  
“The dimeritium. Do it now.” 


	79. Chapter 79

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ciri hasn’t spoken much in the last few chapters so I wanted to explore her lil thoughts! There will be some fluffier/fun chapters ahead and some chill time for the squad, promise!

Jaskier woke to a violent jolt and the sounds of wheels screeching and creaking as they careened over a large bump. The crash that followed had him falling off whatever the hell he’d passed out on, landing with a surprisingly hollow _thunk_.  
  
He opened his mouth to release a string of obscenities but it felt as though someone had stuffed a load of cotton in there, sapping up all the moisture.  
  
“Fuh - _hell_ \- ” he was able to croak after another jolt, fingers scrabbling at the floor. There was something tangled around his leg and he kicked lamely at it. ” _Gerroffme_ \- ”  
  
Chains jangled overhead and the thing around his ankle was carefully unwound and removed. A large hand then hoisted him easily up and plopped him down on something hard. A bench. He blinked blearily, the world going in and out of focus, but before he could tip too far to the left the hand was back, firmly holding his forearm to keep him upright.  
  
The bench was fixed to a wall and as things slowly became clearer, he saw there was another about two feet ahead. That one was covered in blankets and pillows that were now spilling out on the floor. Had he been sleeping there? Like some drunken vagabond? Well, he indulged himself frequently at taverns and banquets and didn't technically own a home... _and_ spent most of his time on the road, so that title was actually more accurate than he'd care to admit.  
  
“Careful up there, Ciri.” The voice at his ear was gravelly and familiar. It addressed him next. “You’re awake. How do you feel?”  
  
He realized belatedly that it was Geralt seated beside him. He was shooting a stern look towards the front of the…room? No, it wasn't a room. Definitely an enclosed space of some sort. It had a rounded roof and _moved_ , a bit like the inside of a large carriage. There were windows but their drapes had been drawn, leaving the interior cool and dark.  
  
At the front there was a rippling maroon curtain and beyond it he could vaguely make out wavy platinum locks whipping about in the wind. Ciri, seated on a third bench outside. There were reins in her hands and she whooped with each bump and jolt, having far too much fun at his expense.  
  
“Jaskier.” Geralt was starting to sound concerned. “Are you all right?”  
  
Right. Should probably answer. When he spoke, his mouth – still unbearably dry – clicked, the words coming out slow and clunky.  
  
“Not sure. Um, Geralt? Whe-e-ere…” The walls shook and he lurched to the side again but the Witcher still had a firm grip on him. He held fast to the edges of the bench all the same, looking a little green. “Where are we?”  
  
As he acquainted himself with his new surroundings, Geralt drew the curtains back a notch. They were trundling along on a poorly-set road and the only view was the face of what looked like a very tall cliff.  
  
“Hour or so out of Cintra. We’ll be hitting the desert after we pass through this canyon, but it’s still a trek to Aedd Gynvael from there.”  
  
“Blaedd...Blyn...Gwyn – ugh, _Gynvael_? I thought we were – “ Speaking stirred the remnants of some foul, medicinal taste in the back of his throat and he gagged, hand flying to his mouth. “ _blegh_! That’s _awful_!”  
  
He hunched over, coughing and swallowing to rid himself of it, and for the first time noticed there were heavy canvas bandages wrapped around the entire lower half of his right leg. He scrunched his face up and tried to bend it but there was something inside, like a rod, that kept him from doing so.  
  
Oh. He had broken his leg, hadn’t he? Fell off the balcony, landed badly. Must have passed out because he couldn’t remember much after that, though he did vaguely recall the feeling of pressure, horrible pressure.  
  
It must have been a messy break, judging by the amount of care put into wrapping it. Somehow, the news didn’t shock him as much as it should have. In fact, he felt a bit like he was floating.  
  
"What of Annika? She can't be - is she - "  
  
“Alive. Shit.” Geralt released the curtain and noticed tiny red droplets had started blossoming on the crisp white bandages. “You’re bleeding. Might’ve ripped a stitch. Does it hurt?”  
  
“No, I don’t feel a thing. So she’s all right? The demon, it told me…ugh, why _do_ I feel so…so…” his mouth remained in an ‘o’ shape before he settled on the word, “foxed?”  
  
The Witcher squinted at him. He had gotten to his knees, gently taking the injured limb into his hands to examine it. “What?”  
  
“You know - _blitzed_. Like I’m here, but not really. Did I eat the wrong mushrooms again?” Now that he mentioned it, Geralt noticed his pupils were blown out, nearly swallowing whole the pretty pale blue of his irises. “Am I dreaming right now? If so it’s a nice one, with you between my legs like that.”  
  
A snort. “You’re not dreaming, Jaskier. Must be the drugs still in your system.”  
  
“Oh.” Jaskier leaned his head back against the wall, satisfied for only a moment before he processed what had been said. He popped back up, eyes widening. “ _Drugs_?”  
  
“From the surgery. Let me know when they start to wear off and I’ll give you another dose.”  
  
“ _Surgery_? H-hang – just hang on!” Geralt had started unraveling the bandages, ignoring the hand that tried weakly batting him away. “I told you, I feel like a cloud. I mean, I don’t feel anything. But clouds don’t either, and…oi, will you listen to me? That can wait, I’d much rather you fill me in on…what…I’ve…”  
  
The words caught on a small gasp when he heard the rattle of chains again. He had dismissed it at first but now, now the source of the sound was right there, leering at him.  
  
“…missed.”  
  
Large, chunky, greenish cuffs on Geralt’s wrists, the chain connecting them loose and dragging on the floor. The surrounding skin looked raw and irritated, the veins all the way up to his elbows tinged that same vile shade of brackish green and pulsing painfully.  
  
“Geralt…” his voice got higher with each syllable as his addled brain struggled to decipher the image before him, “wh-what is this?”  
  
The Witcher paused and for a brief moment his eyes met Jaskier’s, expression unreadable, before flitting back down. There were four long scratches from his cheekbone all the way down to his neck that didn't seem to be healing as fast as usual.  
  
“Dimeritium.”  
  
“Dim - ?” Jaskier ignored the other man’s irritated grunt and somehow managed to catch his hand, drawing the offending substance closer. He had only seen it once in Annika’s cave, when she had used it to suppress the Witcher’s signs – even then, he had only caught a fleeting glimpse. “Who did this – was it Casper? Geralt, we have to get them off, it’s not safe - ”  
  
While from afar the manacles seemed like nothing more than two unpolished hunks of rock, at this proximity he could feel sinister energy pouring off them in droves – the slightest touch as he started furtively looking for a way to remove them already had him feeling weaker, drained, nauseous –  
  
“Don’t touch them. You’ve lost a lot of blood.” Geralt’s voice was soft as he carefully removed Jaskier’s hands. “It was my call, not Casper’s.”  
  
“Your - ? Have you gone mad? _Why_? For fuck’s sake, you’re not an animal, and it’s – it’s clearly hurting you.” The revelation sobered him, his speech gradually returning to normal. “Look how pale you are. And your veins, they’re…no. No, no, no. I want them off.”  
  
“They stay on.” His tone firmed up. “That’s final.”  
  
“Where's the key?”  
  
“Yen has it. In the caravan ahead of ours.”  
  
“Right. I’m going to - ”  
  
He made to stand on one leg but Geralt was still holding the other and easily outmaneuvered him, planting him right back down. He tried again - same result, the other’s easily (but gently) managing to keep him on the bench.  
  
“You horse’s _arse_!” After the third attempt he pressed his back against the wall, arms crossed petulantly over his chest. “How stubborn can you get?”  
  
“Look who’s talking.” The corner of Geralt’s lips quirked, just a little. He eased the injured leg off his lap and edged closer. “The cuffs stay on. Got it?”  
  
Jaskier’s face had gone bright red and his indignant, squeaky ‘fuck off’ only encouraged the other man. He placed his hands on either side of him on the bench and fully closed the space between them.  
  
The chain rested in the bard's lap, an uncomfortable weight that reminded him why he was so cross - of course, Geralt was _clearly_ trying to erase the thought from his mind through seduction, making direct eye contact less than a breath away from his lips like that. He hated that it was sort of working for him. Blame it on the lingering delirium.  
  
“Now, can I check your stitches in peace?”  
  
Jaskier puffed his cheeks before releasing a large, defeated breath in the other’s face. “Oh, go on, then. If you must. But this is _not_ the end of the discussion. You hear me?”  
  
“I hear you.”  
  
With that, the Witcher disentangled himself and drew back, leaving a cold and empty space between Jaskier's thighs, and diligently examined the injury. No stitches had been ripped, thankfully, and the blood was minimal - just a bit of leakage from the edges, where it had been aggravated by the fall.  
  
He cleaned and re-wrapped it, angling his arms to block Jaskier’s view - the limb was swollen and mottled with bruises, barely looking like an ankle at all. The stitches, as well, were large and unsightly.  
  
He hadn’t needed to, however. The bard opened the curtains and busied himself with looking out the window, brows knitted together. He would let the matter rest for now, while he was mentally at a disadvantage, but as soon as he regained full clarity he would convince Geralt to remove the cuffs. It wasn’t right, locking him up like some common criminal – as though he was complicit in Vrart’s wicked deeds.  
  
Jaskier wouldn't stand for it. They would just have to find another way to combat the demon’s hold on him.  
  
By the time Geralt was done, his thoughts were slightly less muddled. Anxiety and the turbulent journey had his stomach in knots, the space around them feeling too small.  
  
“I want to sit with Ciri. I need some air.”  
  
In truth, he wanted to hear their littlest companion's opinion on the matter.  
  
“You shouldn’t - ”  
  
The bard barked a hollow laugh. “Don’t even think about telling me what to do, Geralt.”  
  
A sigh. “Fair. I’ll take you, just let me get the crutches.”  
  
“Yeah, you do that. Get the stupid – wait, crutches? For me?”  
  
Geralt reached under the bench, pulling out a shoddy-looking pair of wooden crutches. Hastily made, seemed like they would wreak havoc on his armpits.  
  
Jaskier glanced down at his bandaged leg, voice losing a little heat as the Witcher helped him up and secured them under his arms.  
  
“It’s bad, isn’t it?”  
  
“It will heal. Give it time.”  
  
Geralt escorted him to the front of the caravan, lifting the curtain and allowing him to pass through before returning to his seat in quiet contemplation. It had taken hours to get Ciri to stop pestering him about the cuffs and now that Jaskier was awake and clearly wanted to discuss them with her, he anticipated several more exhaustive attempts at getting him to change his mind.  
  
He wouldn't. The still-fresh memory of his own fingers tightening around Jaskier's pale, bruised neck while he slept made sure of that.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
“Shouldn’t you be resting?” Cirilla chastised when the bard hobbled outside, cursing and muttering under his breath, though she scooted over to make room on the rickety bench. Her vibrant eyes were fixed on the road before them, reins held loosely in her hands. “If you fall and break your other leg, we're leaving you on the side of the road.  
  
“ _Gods_ you sound like Geralt.”  
  
With a slightly embarrassing old-man grunt he sat beside her, placing the crutches between his legs and allowing the broken limb to stick out awkwardly in front.  
  
“How is he?”  
  
“Hurting, though he’ll tell you otherwise. I don’t like it.” Jaskier frowned at the caravan lumbering along in front of their own. He could only imagine what the other three were discussing in there. “Any of it.”  
  
She pursed her lips. “Neither do I.”  
  
“I just don’t understand how we got here. Why did he agree to this? What happened?”  
  
“Lots.” She rummaged around in the pack at her feet, offering him a pear. “You should eat. We’ve been on the road for hours.”  
  
He pulled out his pocketknife, slicing the fruit into pieces. They shared it as she spoke.  
  
“He wouldn’t say why, only stormed out and demanded we restrain him. 'Immediately.' Tried talking him down but he’d made up his mind and everyone besides me thought he was doing the right thing.” She scoffed. “It’s idiotic. What if we’re attacked again? The other’s can’t use their spells, I’m certainly not equipped to handle a whole demon and, no offense, but _look_ at you.”  
  
“Oh, _thanks_. Thanks _so_ much.”  
  
She snorted, lightly bumping his shoulder with her own.  
  
“I’m only saying that without Geralt, we’re vulnerable. He’s putting himself in danger, too. That stuff will start taking a toll, and soon. Learned about it in one of Vesemir’s lectures – nausea, fever, chills. In extreme cases, hallucinations and paranoia. It should be outlawed but it’s not because some idiot with a crown decided overnight that magic is a threat to society. Now you can buy it at any stall in any city and everyone and their mother thinks it’s a gift from the gods, the bane of mages, blah blah _blah_.”  
  
“Feeling political today, are we?” Jaskier teased, earning another playful shove. “Don't you worry, little cub. The ‘ooh, we hate magic now, magic bad’ thing will blow over after a decade or so. Maybe a war or two. It always does.”  
  
“That doesn’t mean it isn’t very, very silly. History is an insufferable wheel.”  
  
“Ah, yes. Sentiments like that are precisely why I adore you so. Anyway, as for Geralt…” He stretched in his seat, squinting up at the sky. It was sunny and cloudless, but the air had a bite to it – strange after living in oppressive heat but if they were traveling to the desert he supposed that was the new normal. “Even with the dimeritium I know that demon is living in his head. Perhaps not in the way we might think, but last night it planted a seed of doubt. I mean, it successfully used him against us. That’s got to hurt, but making himself sick as what – penance? No. Not on my watch. I’ll get through to him, you’ll see. I’m adept at wearing him down.”  
  
She giggled. “That’s one way of putting it.”  
  
“Just what are you implying? I’ll have you know, _no one_ can resist these baby blues for long.”  
  
Of course, she had seen firsthand – in the form of drunken brawls, kidnappings, and attempts on his life – that most could, indefinitely. “ _Right_.”  
  
He waved her off, but was relieved to hear some levity in her voice and see her smile. He was keeping a positive tone, hiding the concern that gnawed at his insides. She chattered at his side as he gazed up at the high walls of the canyon on either side of them. Marvelous, but a little claustrophobic – the caravans were wide, nearly as wide as the road, and if he extended a crutch all the way out he could probably touch rock.  
  
“ – and Kaer Morhen would be much safer, in my opinion, but - ”  
  
“Oh, that reminds me – why _are_ we going to Aedd Gynvael? And what happened to the demon? I love a great many things about Geralt, but he’s terrible at keeping me in the loop. Last I remember he was crushing its face – might I add, _ew_ \- but the rest is a blur.”  
  
Her eyes, still curved around a smile, lost some light. A relief that he didn’t recall waking in the midst of Yen’s surgery, but the image of him clawing at his own leg – his frantic cries, hand catching Geralt’s cheek as they forced sedative down his throat, nails drawing blood – remained branded in her memory.  
  
The kicked-puppy look she had caught on the Witcher’s face before Yen ushered them out made the whole ordeal much, much worse.  
  
“I wasn’t there, but apparently it…exploded?"  
  
" _Exploded_?"  
  
"Yeah, which allowed it to get away, I guess. Not entirely sure on the specifics, but whatever it was burned Geralt’s arm up pretty good.”  
  
As she filled him in, he noticed a face peering at him from the caravan ahead - there was a window on either side of its back door, and upon closer examination he realized the face belonged to Annika. He could vaguely make out Casper’s profile in the other.  
  
When she saw that he noticed her she immediately made a rude gesture with her hand, sticking out her tongue. He snorted, just glad to see her well enough to tease him so, and offered a cheeky little wink and a wave back.  
  
“…and _Casper_ thought he might find something useful in his research, but his dig site is in the middle of the desert. Have you ever been? I haven’t. He told me about these things called _oases_ that are like tiny little pockets of heaven in the middle of…”  
  
Casper seemed to be absorbed in a book and Annika made a show of looking dreadfully bored, placing a hand on her chest and pantomiming despair, fainting, and all manner of other dramatics. Jaskier caught sight of bandages wrapped about that hand, layered so heavily he could barely make out its shape.  
  
The amusement he got from her theatrics faltered and he thought back to the previous night. The finger in Vrart’s mouth. Geralt had said she was alive and he hadn’t thought more of it, but if she had truly lost a finger, or more –  
  
His lips parted but before he could mouth something to her (he wasn’t sure what – maybe a tactless ‘what’s going on with your hand?’) her eyes were drawn to something behind him. She slammed her good palm on the window, startling him, before frantically gesturing over his head.  
  
She was shouting now, which scared the daylights out of Casper – his book flew from his hands and he shot her a look before frowning and following her gaze. He immediately followed suit, pointing at the same spot, saying something Jaskier couldn’t hear.  
  
Ciri’s little anecdote came to a halt. “What are they - ”  
  
He never heard the end of the question, their caravan suddenly rocked by what felt like an explosion. Jaskier yelped as the whole thing tilted dangerously to the left, threatening to overturn – the impact had Ciri bouncing out of her seat, nearly lost to the dirt road racing below.  
  
Before she could topple over he caught her cloak, dragging her back down onto the bench and keeping his hand fisted in its thick material, just in case.  
  
The horse had panicked, its reins nearly slipping free but Cirilla regained her composure and caught them before they could slide over the edge at their feet.  
  
“What the _hell_ was that?”  
  
Jaskier shook a few wooden splinters from his hair – there had been a deluge of them upon impact – and turned at the waist, noticing a small crater in the roof. A rock must have fallen from the cliffs above. Despite Ciri’s shouts that he remain seated he used his crutch and good leg to prop himself up on the bench, trying to get a better look at the damage. It hadn’t gone all the way through but left a splintered mess in its wake. In fact, it was probably on the road behind them, if he looked, just…  
  
He promptly let out an undignified shriek and lowered his head until just his eyes were peeking over because there, several yards away, he could make out the shapes of about a dozen horses kicking up dust as they sped towards their convoy. To make matters worse, when he swiveled back round he saw several more dark figures ahead at the tops of the cliffs, likely preparing to rappel down.  
  
An ambush. Of _course_ it was an ambush.  
  
“Um, sweet Ciri? We, uh – we’ve got company. Th-the bad kind, I think.”  
  
She had the reins in both hands, knuckles white as she struggled to regain control of the terrified horse. Ahead of them, Yen’s caravan was wobbling and veering dangerously back and forth on the road, slamming into the cliffs on either side.  
  
“You don’t think I noticed? Get to Geralt, he’ll keep you - ”  
  
Another small boulder was hurled off the cliff, taking a good chunk off the back steps and making the whole structure rattle and jolt violently. A wave of motion sickness crashed over him as he clung to Ciri and the bench for dear life.  
  
“What about you? Gods, I hate being the adult, but I can’t leave - ”  
  
“I can handle myself – just _go_!”  
  
She bobbed up and down in her seat but now that she was prepared for it, was able to keep herself in place by what he assumed to be strength training and sheer force of will. Reluctantly, he readied his crutches and practically crawled around the bench on one leg before getting up, hopping around on one foot. Feeling was starting to come back slowly in his ankle and he didn’t know, didn’t want to know, what level of pain it might bring with it.  
  
He drew back the curtain, clutching the frame of the opening and panting slightly.  
  
“Geralt, there are – people - people throwing _rocks_ , and - "  
  
"Get down!"  
  
"- and they're – oh, _shit_!”  
  
He followed the command just in time as a needle-thin stiletto came spinning towards him, whistling by his ear and embedding itself to the hilt in the wood paneling at his shoulder.  
  
At the back of the caravan was Geralt, face bright red as he struggled against the masked assailant wrestling him from behind, her arm curled tightly about his neck.


	80. Chapter 80

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’ve had to write so much code these last few days my brain is short-circuiting so I’m sorry if this chapter is a mess. I have ascended the physical realm. My roommate asked if I wanted anything from the corner store earlier and for 5 whole seconds I genuinely forgot I was a human being and not one with the machine at my fingertips and I just stared at her like :o before finally whispering “…c-cucumber gatorade”
> 
> Also for anyone who forgot these people like I did, the first part is the POV of one of the dwarven twins from a few chapters ago. They were dwarves, right? That’s how I’ve been picturing them the whole…hold on, lemme check.
> 
> Ok yeah. Dwarves it is! <3 Anyway, I don't _think_ she'll become a permanent fixture (def can't handle another addition to the gang lolol, it's getting out of hand) but I realized she was a Chekhov's gun that had yet to go off so I thought why not now!
> 
> tl;dr: here's a chapter :)

Narra sprinted along the side of the cliff, hopping over stray brambles and bushes, her bow clutched tightly in one hand. A few strands of frizzy red hair had escaped her braids and she licked her palm, smoothing them back. The caravan bringing up the rear below was moving fast, but a lifetime of hunting quick-footed prey allowed her to keep up quite efficiently.  
  
There was a loud, splintering crash as one of her fellow mercenaries flung another boulder down. Only a handful of snipers and stealthier types had been stationed on the cliffs, the rest coming up from behind on horseback.  
  
The intent was to immobilize the convoy, take out anyone that needed taking out (specifically, the bloke with the lute and fluffy hair) and secure the Witcher by any means necessary.  
  
That last boulder had spooked the already terrified horse and rather than continue speeding through the canyon at breakneck speeds, it veered right and came to a sudden stop – the caravan screeched to a halt with it, nearly turning over, and the young girl at its front shouted and clung to the rails. Once it had stopped moving she glanced up nervously before blowing her hair out of her face, drawing a blade, and hopping out.  
  
Clever girl, must have been aware of their presence above. She immediately found a blind spot, keeping herself well out of firing range as she urgently tried getting the animal moving again.  
  
Meanwhile, the first caravan continued racing along ahead, out of control and slamming into the cliffs but leaving the second in the dust cloud kicked up by its wheels. Those on horses were swiftly closing the gap, their weapons at the ready.  
  
Right. That was her cue. Secure any kills and provide backup, in case the others failed or were overpowered.  
  
Narra crouched, so close to the edge her boots sent a spray of pebbles over as she did. Placed her bow on the ground and pulled down her mask, taking a deep breath of fresh, cool air. With the turmoil going on below, she would need full focus and all that running had left her winded.  
  
She got her breathing back under control easily – marksmanship was a common skill back home in the mountains, but she and her sister had been famous for it. They knew all the techniques to ensure deadly, surgical precision. Used to make a pretty penny from the drunks for knocking apples and various other fruit straight off their heads. One time, Ninna, she...  
  
She…  
  
Narra shook the thought from her mind and steeled herself, picking the bow back up and studying the caravan’s battered exterior. There was some sort of commotion going on inside and it jittered with the movement – she could vaguely hear crashes, shouting, other telltale sounds of a violent struggle.  
  
There, a flash of brown hair. The Witcher’s blubbering companion, no doubt about it. From her vantage point she had a clear shot through the blown-out window.  
  
What kind of idiot would leave themselves so vulnerable, standing stock still out in the open like that? In the midst of an ambush, no less. No survival instincts to speak of. His fancy little clothes – impeccably clean, frilly, blue - and smooth, princely face looked out of place, like he belonged literally anywhere else. Maybe a ball. Certainly not running for his life on the high road, let alone running for his life on the high road attached at the hip to a Witcher.  
  
She sniffed, scratched the spot where her beard was starting to grow back in, and adjusted her position. Crouched lower, nocked an arrow. There was one of her own in the caravan with them, she realized – well, not really her own (a development she had noticed only two nights ago), but the woman was wearing the company's colors, black and purple. Her mask had come off and she was in the process of removing a glove while nimbly dodging the Witcher’s heavy blows, a malicious grin plastered on her face. The madwoman. Did she _want_ to switch bodies with him?  
  
The sight of her unhinged expression sent a massive tremor through the redhead that made the taut line of her bowstring quiver. She let out a shaky breath - it wasn’t him. It wasn’t the shifter. Just one of the trespassers nobody but her believed existed.  
  
She had no idea _where_ the shifter had gone after dragging her back to their base camp at the edge of the woods that night. And none of her allies had listened when she told them what it was, what it had done. They looked at her like she was mad and when it finally released her, throwing her to the ground, she turned and saw its face had changed into that of their commander.  
  
It wasn’t their commander. How stupid could they be? He was back at the coast, oblivious to the fact that his merry band of mercenaries had been infiltrated by man-eating shapeshifters and rabid zealots.  
  
And the trespassers, like the wild-eyed woman she was watching terrorize the Witcher and bard below. She didn’t know what fucked church or cult they were from but apparently, while she’d been gone, they had slipped in among their ranks so discreetly that none of the others even noticed.  
  
Nobody believed her when she told them they weren’t part of the group, either – didn’t they find it strange, how casually these people spoke of leviathans and mysterious second-comings by the campfire? Old Brarva had dismissed their ravings as mere stories meant to frighten the younger, greener members but the reverent tones of their voices told the redhead otherwise.  
  
They were waiting for something. This job would bring whatever it was, whatever their goal was, to fruition.  
  
She couldn’t blame her comrades, though. Aside from Brarva and a few others, most were newbies. They had taken on a lot of those recently. Plenty of new faces that would make it easy to blend in. A man she did know – Yerram - was positioned across the canyon from her, also aiming down with his bow, waiting for the perfect shot. When they made eye contact he offered a sympathetic smile and the knot in her stomach constricted.  
  
No, she couldn’t blame them. She knew she had looked a right mess upon her forced return, kicking and screaming and covered in blood. Branded a deserter by their not-commander. On the way there, he had told her she was only alive because he was sleepy and his belly was full. That she was the perfect size for a snack and if she tried anything funny he'd come back for her the next time his stomach rumbled.  
  
She was barely able to speak in her own defense while he stood before the rest of the group and denounced her, calmly informing them that the Witcher had killed the rest of her party. She could only choke out her weak, wavery denials as she pawed frantically at the dirt to clean her hands upon remembering whose blood was on them, what she had seen, what it had _done_ -  
  
Gods....dear, sweet Ninna. Lovely, oafish Stet. That night in the woods, they thought they were in the clear. They made camp and decided not to meet back up with the rest of the group, to run as far as they could and not look back. None of them had signed up for this and they sure as hell weren’t going to stick around to see how it all turned out.  
  
They thought they were safe. Surely the shifter had gone looking for the Witcher instead. From what he'd said to them through the door at the inn, it seemed he had a bug up his arse about getting the task done as soon as possible.  
  
She and Stet were hunting for some semblance of dinner - his wound was healing nicely and in a tender moment he had brushed her hair back with a gloved hand, describing his boat back in Skellige, telling her how excited he was to set sail together after all this blew over - when they heard her sister scream.  
  
It was the first of many that night. It had been so _strong_. Took at least ten arrows, only laughed and pulled one out of its face of the day – the bard’s, which hurt to see now, though this iteration was far more human - with a sick _squelch_.  
  
She pursed her lips and secured her aim, ready to let the arrow fly, to watch it lodge right between those crystalline blue eyes. Still so _scared_. Wide as saucers. They brought about another unwelcome image from that hellish night and she realized the look on his face was just as her sister’s had been in her final moments. The kind of fear that looked almost childish, innocent, like she hadn't understood why it was happening to _her_ -  
  
No. What was she doing? She couldn’t let that monster scare her into submission, couldn't let it have its way. Not after it had taken so much from her. And she didn’t know what the end game was, what it or its ‘master’ or these smiling freaks needed with the Witcher’s body, but she knew whatever it was couldn’t be good. No, it was bad. Maybe even world-endingly so.  
  
She fired, watching in satisfaction when the arrow hit home, sinking into the woman’s skull all the way to its colorful fletching. Her hand, which was centimeters away from making contact with the Witcher's bare skin, froze in place. Even his steely, unnerving eyes widened in surprise and Narra could have sworn he looked directly at her as he thrust the woman's corpse out the back door where she remained a motionless heap, blood pooling around her in the dust and dirt.  
  
She could hear the bard’s screechy “oh, _fuck_!” even from her perch, but couldn’t indulge in the amusement it brought her for long. Across the way, Yerram – who had seen the whole thing – was waving his arms at her, shouting something. When she ignored him, nocking another arrow and taking out one of the men about to jump from lines on the cliff to the caravan, he stopped his shouting and started alerting the others. All eyes fell on her.  
  
Shit.  
  
Just another minute and the riders would be upon them. However strong and capable the Witcher was, it didn’t matter. They clearly weren’t playing by the rules, would just as soon place themselves in his body and who knew what else - maybe even kill him within their own to ensure he wouldn’t be able to interfere later on.  
  
The young girl had managed to soothe the horse and hopped back up on the bench, yelling something over her shoulder at her companions inside. It was moving slowly, not fast enough – at that rate they would be caught out for sure.  
  
Narra took out a third man, hoping it was a crazed fanatic and not one of her friends, and reached into her quiver for a different kind of arrow. A little experiment of Ninna’s, its hollow tip filled with explosive Zerrikanian powder - the stuff they used in the mines. It was a substance that needed only the smallest amount of friction to produce a big boom.  
  
There was a cluster of large, loose rocks on the other side of the canyon. If she timed it right, hit just the right spot, it would trigger a small avalanche, cutting off the riders. Hopefully missing the caravan, but she couldn’t predict how the rocks would fall and she had already come this far. Possibly crushing the passengers within was a risk she would have to take. A dead Witcher meant no body for them to use, anyway - right?  
  
Anything to wipe those grins off their horrid faces.  
  
She let out a long, steady breath and thought of her sister. _For you, Ninna_.  
  
With that, and a soft _twang_ , she let the arrow fly.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Jaskier froze as the woman readied a second projectile, aiming for him again, but Geralt slammed backwards into the wall, pinning her and forcing her to drop the weapon in favor of raining blows down on his shoulders as he crushed her ribs.  
  
The little back door – perilously close to where they were wrestling against each other - was opening and closing erratically, the previously pleasant view of the canyon whizzing by nauseatingly fast. The horses were still a ways away but gaining on them fast and Jaskier could see their riders more clearly now. They all wore masks and gloves and wielded a lovely variety of fun-looking weapons.  
  
It was obvious the woman had burst in through the window above where he and Geralt had only just been sitting as it was completely kicked out, shards of glass and wood sliding around at their feet.  
  
“Geralt - ” Jaskier hobbled forward a step, looking for anything that might offer assistance. The Witcher’s sword was in its sheath, resting atop their packs in the corner but almost within reach. “H-how can I help?”  
  
When he went for it without waiting for an answer – he didn’t expect one, as the man was being throttled by a slender but surprisingly strong arm and shot him a look that said _kind of fucking busy here, Jaskier_ \- a bump in the road had his grip on one crutch faltering. It clattered to the floor and he put the tiniest bit of weight on his ankle; the sharp pain that followed had him doubling over, catching the wall and biting back a cry.  
  
Geralt was right – he needed the drugs. He needed them _bad_.  
  
With a growl, the Witcher jabbed backwards into his attacker’s stomach with his elbow, knocking the wind out of her though her grip on his neck hardly loosened. There was still a small opening, however, and he used it to jerk his head to the side and thrust his arms up. The movement had the chains on his cuffs rocketing backwards, missing him and clocking her in the jaw.  
  
That did it, the arm cutting off his air supply finally relenting, but before he could whirl around and kick her out the door there was a piercing screech and the caravan jolted and swerved, sending all of its inhabitants flying. It nearly tipped all the way onto its side and he could hear Ciri shouting frantically but by some stroke of luck it didn’t overturn, the airborne left wheels plopping back down on the road with another loud bang. It stopped moving entirely, though, which did not bode well.  
  
Jaskier yelped – he had lurched forward just in time, grabbing the shattered windowsill and holding on for dear life. His broken limb screamed in protest but he managed to remain mostly upright, using the bench for support as well. If he had been flung into the wall like Geralt and the woman he would have surely passed out.  
  
The sword. He had to get the sword. It had fallen off their luggage and slipped under the bench. He groaned at the movement, at the nausea that swirled in his gut, but knelt down and retrieved it. He was sure he didn’t look very intimidating, sweating profusely, a crutch under one arm and the other wielding a blade with absolute uncertainty.  
  
The Witcher had recovered from the collision immediately, pushing himself up off the ground and barreling towards the woman. She was quick, he’d give her that. She smoothly rolled out of the way as he slammed the heavy chains down, leaving a large crack in the wood floor. They should have been a burden in hand-to-hand combat but he was a quick study and already starting to use their weight and range to his advantage.  
  
The woman laughed - her mask had slipped off at some point during the struggle, revealing a wild, frenetic expression. She rolled backwards to dodge another crushing blow and used the momentum to hop up on one of the benches when he came at her with a third.  
  
He grunted in irritation. Her eyes kept darting towards Jaskier, looking for an opening, but he refused to give her one. He caught the sword tossed to him and lunged at her again but she grabbed a wood beam on the ceiling, hoisting herself up and swinging backwards before delivering a swift kick to his face. She followed it up with two more, the first hitting his solar plexus and stealing the breath from his lungs.  
  
He managed to duck and dodge the last one, snatching her foot before she could swing back again and forcefully yanking her down. The beam cracked while she tried to hold on but he carried more brute strength and easily detached her and tossed her across the enclosure, where she slammed bodily into the wall.  
  
Jaskier cheered but cut himself off with an " _oww_." Geralt used the back of his hand to wipe the blood from his split lip, spitting the rest out on the floor and stalking towards her.  
  
"Didn't know the circus was in town."  
  
She only grinned, eyes alight with excitement. Blood gushed from a cut on her forehead. Her dark clothes and long limbs made her look much like a spider, crouched low in the corner, leggy and dangerous and ready to pounce.  
  
He swung and she rolled again. Squeaking out "no, nono _no_ ," Jaskier hopped on one foot to the other side, by the window, to maintain some distance between himself and her unpredictable, double-jointed gymnastics.  
  
Geralt adjusted his grip on the sword, fielding her to ensure she wouldn't be able to land any blows on the bard. She straightened, started casually removing one of her long, black gloves and carefully matched his steps as he circled her, preparing to strike.  
  
"All _this_ ," she dropped the article on the floor, wiggling her fingers and using her eyes to gesture at the caravan, the sword, Geralt's cuffs, "is in vain. You can't stop us. We're going to fix the world."  
  
While the Witcher wanted to ask what she meant, he knew there was precious little time to sit and chat. There were others, he could smell them. Countless others. From behind, above. Yen's scent was fading quickly - he needed to dispatch this woman and help Ciri get the caravan moving again or they would have a much more serious fight on their hands.  
  
He could end it quickly. Just had to pin her down, though that feat was proving far more difficult than anticipated.  
  
"Heard that one before." He found an opening in her cautious movements and swung as he spoke. She sidestepped but his blade caught her chest, slicing through her shirt and drawing blood - he withdrew and paced around her once more, looking for another. "Like those who've tried before you, you'll be disappointed to find there are some things that just can't be fixed."  
  
She licked her lips. "That's where you're wrong, Witcher. Pity you won't be around to see what he can do."  
  
Gold eyes narrowed. "Who - "  
  
She cut him off by squatting low to throw off his aim, slipping a dagger from the arsenal on her belt and flicking it towards Jaskier. Geralt was forced to deflect it with his blade and she used the momentary distraction to strike upwards like a snake, bare hand outstretched, fingers seconds away from brushing his cheek.  
  
Something whistled through the window then, close enough to Jaskier that the breeze it conjured rustled a few strands of his hair. An arrow that impaled the woman's head with a loud _thunk_ and a sickening crunch.  
  
The light immediately left her eyes and her hand fell through thin air as Geralt stepped away, shouldering her body out the door just as the caravan started moving again. His eyes flitted up to the cliff, catching a glimpse of red.  
  
"Oh, _fuck_!" Jaskier shrieked, plastering himself to the wall beside the window. He cautiously peered back out mere seconds later, though. "Who - who did that?"  
  
Geralt stood at the open door, watching as the riders advanced on them, minutes away now. Stole a quick glance to where Ciri was back on the bench, coaxing the horse into a gallop. Feeling his gaze, she called to them over her shoulder.  
  
"All good back there?"  
  
"No. Shit." He stalked across the small space, rifling through their luggage. They weren't moving fast enough, would have to fight, but he could take some out before they descended upon them. He just needed... "Jaskier, where the fuck is my crossbow?"  
  
The bard bristled, pain making him irritable. "Why the hell are you asking me? I've been unconscious for the last - "  
  
Their bickering was drowned out by an absolutely deafening explosion from behind that not only shook the caravan, but the entire canyon. A large flash of light, some invisible force that nearly sent Jaskier bouncing out the window but Geralt dove for him, wrapping his arms about his body to cushion the blow as they slammed to the floor. Jaskier's agonized shouts were lost to the sounds of the blast, of a series of heavy objects crashing to the ground outside.  
  
It took a moment to reorient themselves. Their poor horse must have been nearing cardiac arrest because the caravan had picked up speed again. Both men shifted from where they had landed in a messy heap, rolling onto their backs and propping themselves up on their elbows to look on in awe through the open door as a landslide of rocks piled up to create a wall on the road behind them. A huge plume of red and black smoke curled up into the late-afternoon, early-dusk sky. 


	81. Chapter 81

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hey y'all! A LOT of unnecessary teasing and flirting in this chap, I can't go long without writing The Banter™ (however poorly) <3 I may upload a short, pre-relationship Hallow's Eve flashback here if I can edit it by Halloween. Not really plot-related, just for fun, but it might include something useful like the Valentine's rose :) 
> 
> Anyway, after that I'll be going on a cross-country drive with my pup, but I preemptively typed out and edited the chapter following this one (not the Halloween one). They're both fairly long because once I upload that I'll probs be absent for a little over a month :D I've done this drive before and there was a surprising lack of wifi :O 
> 
> LASTLY I think it's adorable that Dandelion writes all of Geralt's journal entries in the third game and I love imagining him doing it while they're traveling together (such fan behavior) so I wanted to include something like that but make it ~plot important~. Not in this chapter, but soon!
> 
> As always, thank you for reading my ridiculous nonsense. I appreciate it so much <3 :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone gets a little stoned. Really need my characters to stop getting injured with no quick-fix, magic-healing all the time.

The caravan accelerated with a lurch, carrying them up a large incline, out of the canyon and away from the puffy cloud of blackening smoke. Its rocky walls were trembling from the aftershocks of the explosion, and even from that distance they could feel the bone-rattling reverberations of boulders still piling up on the road.  
  
Both men remained splayed out on the dented, wood-paneled floor in a long stretch of rare silence, Geralt’s usual mask of neutrality broken by raised silver brows, slightly parted lips; Jaskier’s mouth, on the other hand, hung open rather spectacularly, closing occasionally and then reopening once more like a fish out of water.  
  
Eventually, the bard shook his head and used his hand to manually snap his own jaw shut. “What in the name of Melitele’s saggy left tit was that?”  
  
Geralt did a double take at the mass of messy brown hair before him. Despite the fact that they just witnessed the absolute and utter destruction of one of the most important trade routes in all the country, it took him longer to recover from ‘saggy left tit’ and when he did, it was not without an affectionate snort.  
  
“Seems we have friends in high places.” A frown when he thought back to the flash of red he’d seen, just after their rescue-by-mystery-arrow. He had a hunch, but hadn't gotten a good enough look to be sure. “On the cliffs, that is. Someone up there - ”  
  
Jaskier made an exasperated noise. "Damn you! You really couldn't just leave it at," he then lowered his voice in a perfect mockery of Geralt's, "' _friends in high places_?' We were at the bottom of a _canyon_ , Geralt. I would’ve gotten the gist. High places, cliffs. Easy.”  
  
“Not this again. We aren't actors in a play, Jaskier.”  
  
“And what a sorry play it would be, with you constantly butchering your own one-liners. When it comes to a good one, brevity is _key_.”  
  
“Ah. Didn't realize I was speaking to the master of brevity." His lips curved, unbidden, into a teasing smile that Jaskier felt as he pressed his face into his shoulder. His voice became a muffled murmur, buried in the fabric of the bard's blouse. "I mistook you for the man who once held a conversation for half an hour before realizing the drunk he was talking to had passed away.”  
  
"Har- _har_. You could have given me a heads up, you know. Instead of placing bets on how long it would take me to notice."  
  
"Bought you a pint with the money, didn't I?"  
  
"A pity pint. And in my defense, the duchess had just banished me from her duchy. I was in a state, and - when he fell face-first into his stew I thought he was commiserating, or just really, really hungry, not...well, dying of heart failure."  
  
"He told you his heart was bursting."  
  
"Full, Geralt. He said _full_. Of sympathy, I assumed."  
  
"Of animal fat and fisstech."  
  
"You are insufferable."  
  
Though he could remain there breathing in the other's scent and listening to his voice for longer than he'd care to admit, Geralt sluggishly decided it was time to right himself and see what was going on up front.  
  
He placed a hand on either side of Jaskier’s waist, scooting them both up into a sitting position before using the tip of his boot to nudge the back door shut. It bounced against its frame a few times and he caught one last glimpse of the massive, rocky eyesore lying in their wake before they careened around a corner and the door’s latch caught with a _click_.  
  
He groaned. “Can’t wait to see how they spin this one. ‘Butcher of Blaviken destroys high road, economy, and brings famine to the lands.”  
  
“Pish. And _posh_. As your barker, I’ve got that covered. Ahem.” Jaskier raised his hands towards the ceiling above with a dramatic flourish, as if displaying an invisible headline. “’White Wolf saves world from awful calamity... _yet again_. All subsequent famines and depressions completely unrelated.’” A pause. “'Perhaps invest in secondary trade routes.'”  
  
Yet another affectionate snort. "You're telling me that after all we've been through, that's how you're still labeling yourself? My barker?"  
  
“What, you doinking me on the side means I'm suddenly out of a job? No, I think not. I am, and always be, your barker first and foremost.”  
  
“Ugh.” Geralt wrinkled his nose at _doinking_. "No wonder you're penniless."  
  
The bard spluttered. “You – take that back! I am not penniless! Not exactly liquid at the moment, no, but...maybe if you actually _paid_ me for my services, you miser.”  
  
Geralt smirked, giving the top of Jaskier’s downy head a kiss before extracting his legs from where they had settled on either side of his lithe frame.  
  
“Absolutely not.” His voice was a playful rumble in Jaskier's ear and he stood, chains rattling obnoxiously. “Come, let’s get you - _mh_.”  
  
Jaskier, with his back still to the other man, eyed his leg dubiously. He didn’t like thinking about it at all, now nauseatingly aware of the loose bones, some foreign object inside shifting with them each time he moved. “Mind giving me a lift? Only I think the drugs have worn off and…Geralt?”  
  
When he was met with a strangely heavy silence he started shimmying around, careful not to jostle the limb too badly. Once he had done a one-eighty, he huffed and went to speak but stopped when he saw the way Geralt was standing stiffly above him, a frown twisting his rugged features.  
  
His large hand was fumbling up by his left shoulder, trying to grab something just beyond reach - from Jaskier's angle, however, the motions looked far more sinister.  
  
“Geralt...” He couldn't help but think back to a similar scene from the previous night - _fingers curled in a fist, preparing to strike_ \- and he hated himself for it, for the tremor in his voice. "Please - "  
  
He was cut off by a faint, wet _splat_ as Geralt caught the hilt of the stiletto embedded just below his shoulder blade, ripping it out with a grunt and a weak spurt of blood and tossing it aside. It clattered noisily to the floor and that, combined with the sight of gold eyes glazing over - as if the removing the blade had broken a dam - spurred Jaskier into action.  
  
“Oh - _oh_! That was in your - ? All right, um…m-maybe should have left it in 'til we - no? Right, spilt milk, you’re right, uh…” He tittered, hands fluttering helplessly but barely reaching the large man’s thighs as he started to sway, face terribly pale. “Let’s – let's take a seat, and – um, Ciri? Ah, no, nono, wait – I can’t _catch_ you like this! Ow, you heavy _bastard_!”  
  
All of this was screeched as Geralt’s eyes rolled back in his head and he fell like a ton of bricks atop Jaskier, thankfully missing his injured leg. Still, having at least ninety kilos of raw muscle dropped in your lap was by no means a painless endeavor and Jaskier wheezed, the wind knocked straight out of him. He quickly found his voice again, shouting hoarsely for the young girl.  
  
He was frustratingly immobilized by the weight and his own injuries – panic started to set in but he managed to get Geralt onto his stomach, cushioning his face in his lap and pressing his hands into the wound, gathering the shredded cloth around it to staunch the flow of blood. The sight made him woozy but it really wasn’t all that bad, in the scope of things. Didn't hit any major organs but could probably use a couple stitches. More concerning was the matter of Geralt passing out so suddenly. Jaskier had seen him finish entire battles sporting far worse. Was it poison? Those thrice-cursed cuffs?  
  
His cries reached Ciri’s ears over the wind and she whirled around in her seat, catching sight of the fallen Witcher, of Jaskier’s horrified face, of the blood on his hands. She remained impressively calm. “Where is he hurt?”  
  
"His shoulder, a dagger – I could use a little help here, I don't think I can stand and he’s…” Jaskier froze when Geralt groaned, shifting minutely. Not entirely unconscious, then. Jaskier couldn’t see his face but could see sweat beading on the back of his neck, could feel the clammy, pulsing heat of the skin around the wound beneath his palms. “Geralt? Talk to me, what's..." when he received no verbal response, he raised his voice again to reach Ciri's ears, "he’s lucid, I think, but he’s burning up…might be poison, or - ”  
  
“Fuck, I'll signal for the others to pull over - keep pressure on it!”  
  
"Got it, I'll just - hey! Watch your language!"  
  
She switched the reins over to one hand, hoped Casper or Annika would be able to see her arm waving frantically in the fading evening light. Before, when there was still a fair distance between their two caravans, she’d caught sight of Annika’s wispy outline in the open back door. She'd been dumping two black-clothed, masked bodies onto the side of the road and was well enough to offer a wave that let Ciri know they were all right.  
  
Both parties had come to a silent agreement to put as much distance as they could between themselves and the sight of the ambush before stopping to make camp. They were currently weaving off-road through the rust-colored plateaus and buttes that characterized an otherwise barren, dry, chilly landscape.  
  
Thankfully, her signal caught their attention and the caravan came to a grinding halt. Jaskier was murmuring softly in Geralt’s ear, trying to rouse him but unable to do much else in his current position.  
  
The back door flung open and he was greeted by the sight of Yennefer, wavy raven hair askew, white blouse torn at the shoulder. Casper was right behind her - he looked to be in pain but by her orders entered the caravan with the intent of helping carry Geralt out.  
  
Yennefer shouted to someone outside, presumably Annika or Ciri, demanding they find a suitable place to make camp and start on boiling some water over a fire.  
  
"How bad is it?"  
  
She didn't give Jaskier time to respond, gesturing for him to remove his hands from the wound and sucking in a sharp breath when she saw how inflamed the skin around it was.  
  
"Poison?"  
  
"I don't know. One moment he was fine, the next..."  
  
She turned to Casper. "You take one arm, I'll take the other. Be careful, try to avoid touching his skin. The dimeritium should suppress the curse but we can't know for sure. I don't fancy finding out the hard way." A soft look at Jaskier, who was still crumpled on the floor, looking rather small. "I'll send Annika in to help you up, all right?"  
  
He nodded, feeling quite useless as he watched them cart Geralt's limp form out of the caravan. He had the wherewithal, at least, to his keep his feet under him as they went, but his eyes remained squeezed tightly shut.  
  
What felt like an eternity later, though in reality was probably only a couple of minutes, Annika shuffled in. Jaskier had managed to pull himself up onto a bench, face screwed up in pain and worry, and when she saw him she put her uninjured hand on her hip.  
  
"Oh, look at that face. Who pissed in your porridge?"  
  
"Thought you were here to help." Jaskier muttered darkly, fiddling with one of his crutches.  
  
" _Ugh_. Quit wallowing. You really think a flesh wound is going to take him down?" She plodded over, picking up the other crutch and shoving it into his chest. When he didn't respond, she used it to poke him hard enough to bruise, meriting a yelp followed by a scathing glare. "Come on, you sap. Get up. I _refuse_ to baby you."  
  
For whatever reason, the normalcy of her harsh, irritated tone made him feel a little better. With a sigh, he slipped both crutches under his arms and stood on one leg.  
  
The others worked swiftly and in the time it took for him to hobble outside they had placed Geralt upon a blanket before a roaring fire. Luckily, the spot where they had pulled over was near a cluster of large rocks and twiggy brambles that provided ample cover and kindling for their temporary campsite.  
  
"How is he?"  
  
Yen sighed. "It isn't poison."  
  
"Then what..." Jaskier trailed off. That left one other explanation. "That's it, they're coming off. Where's the key?"  
  
Tired violet eyes scrutinized him for a long moment, until a gloved hand dismissed him. "No. Not without his permission."  
  
"But you - ow, _fuck_ me with a pole axe."  
  
He had taken a step forward on the wrong leg, doubling over but impressively remaining on his feet. Foot.  
  
"Cirilla, be a dear and dose him. Casper, too. Measure it out carefully, the herbs are potent." She glanced down at Geralt, gnawing on her lower lip and speaking to him as though he was capable of responding. "Not sure they'll do much for the pain with your metabolism, but they'll certainly break that fever."  
  
Annika, who was perched on a rock, offered Ciri a sickeningly sweet smile. "Me too, please."  
  
The young girl gave her a look as she tapped out a sizeable amount of ground herbs into a skin of water. "Are you in pain?"  
  
"Um, _hello_?" She waved around her bandaged hand. "Two missing fingers? Does it _matter_?"  
  
Ciri rolled her eyes and passed her the water. Offered it to Casper next, but when she approached Jaskier he shook his head, pushing it away.  
  
" _No_." He limped closer, pointing at the cuffs. They throbbed, sickly and green, in the light of the fire - that only served to fuel his anger. "Not until you take them off. Him being like this...it's not right. He's not himself. Normally he'd brush something like this off, say it's just a scratch, and I..." He floundered, his words hanging in the air. "I can't just..."  
  
"Um - Jaskier?" That was Casper, responding to Yennefer's pleading look. With a kind smile, he gestured to the far end of the clearing, a spot given some privacy by a few leaf-less bushes. "Mind giving me a hand? One of those masked bastards tore off my bandages and I need some help wrapping them back up."  
  
The bard knew what they were doing, but was forced to come to terms with the fact that he was currently outnumbered and Ciri, though she had shared his opinion earlier, was still just a child. Resentfully, he snatched the skin, took a long sip without breaking eye contact with Yen, and stalked off after the mage.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
They sat upon a pair of small rocks and Casper handed him a roll of bandages and a few pins. As Jaskier removed the rest of the old wrappings, revealing blistered and bruised skin that glistened with day-old ointment, Casper followed his anxious, wandering gaze back over to the campfire, where Yen was stitching Geralt up.  
  
“Tell me, why does the Witcher carry a single sword? In all the ballads he has two, but I've only seen the one.” A sly smile. “An embellishment on your part?”  
  
Jaskier feigned a scandalized look. “I do _not_ embellish.” He couldn’t hold the façade for long, and released a breathy laugh when Casper raised a brow. “Maybe the teeny-tiniest bit. Not about the swords, though. Silver for monsters, steel for man.”  
  
“Seems efficient.”  
  
“Or cumbersome. If you ask him, he'll say the whole thing's meaningless." Despite his foul mood, he smiled fondly. "A running joke of his, that there really is no distinction between the two. Humans and monsters, I mean.”  
  
“With the exception of you.”  
  
It wasn’t a question, but a statement. Jaskier snorted, busying himself with gently wrapping fresh bandages around the man’s hand and wrist - careful, of course, not to touch his skin. Oddly enough, it was becoming more and more difficult to meet Casper’s eyes as the conversation went on.  
  
“Ehh. Don't know about that. He does find me _monstrously_ annoying.”  
  
“I'm sure that's not true. Bickering is one thing, but I can already see how highly he values you. Not as an object, but as a person. An equal. Your thoughts, your opinions. It's refreshing.” Casper chuckled. “Listen to me, rambling about love like an old spinster. Yennefer aside, the real reason I asked for your help was to check in on you.”  
  
Jaskier blinked. “Check in?”  
  
“After last night. How do you feel?”  
  
_Geralt pinning him against the glass, fingers curled in a fist, preparing to strike. His eyes were cold and empty pits, void of any remorse or feeling. He’d never looked at Jaskier like that, not even during their fight on the mountain, when he had sworn him out of his life for good._  
  
The image resurfaced so forcefully it sent a shiver down Jaskier’s spine. He concealed it with a shrug. “Could do without the broken leg, but other than that I’m right as rain.”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
The bard bristled. Sure, he didn’t have the best reputation when it came to truthfulness…ness, but _really_. The audacity. “Excuse me?”  
  
“Sorry, let me start over. My job, it requires a lot of observation. The silent kind. I tend to do it to people, too, which...they don't always appreciate. Anyway, I hope you don’t take offense when I say I've noticed that, much like your Witcher, there is more to you than meets the eye. Still waters run deep, and all that.”  
  
“My waters aren't particularly still.”  
  
“No, but you’re also not as carefree as you’d like people to think.” His tone, which had been light, suddenly grew serious. “You laugh and you joke but it’s all in the eyes. Last night scared you. Rightfully so.”  
  
Jaskier didn’t much like where this was going. “I’m not afraid of Geralt.”  
  
“Of course not, but he did scare you. Himself, as well, I'd imagine. Have you two had the chance to discuss what happened?”  
  
“Between the ambush, freak explosion, and life-threatening injuries? No, not so much.”  
  
Casper chuckled. “Fair. Though it might be best to have that conversation sooner rather than later, for both of your sakes. These things tend to fester and I wouldn't want to see it hurt you or your relationship. That's all."  
  
"Er..."  
  
“Well. I fear I’ve taken too much of your time, but please don’t hesitate to come to me if you need anything. Even if it’s just to talk.” With the bandages secured in place by a pin, Casper withdrew his arm, giving it an experimental shake. He let out a low whistle when he didn’t feel a thing. “She wasn’t kidding about those herbs. I’m soaring.”  
  
Jaskier, who was really _not_ prone to unnecessary suspicions, found himself narrowing his eyes all the same. "Hang on. You're saying you pulled me aside just to...what? Offer advice?"  
  
"Is that so strange?"  
  
"Well, no. I guess not." He furrowed his brow. "Gods, I've been hanging around Geralt and Annika for too long." The concern on his face melted, then, into a sunny smile. "Thank you, Casper. I appreciate it."  
  
"Any time." Casper stood and stretched before offering the bard his good hand. "We'd best get back to the warmth of the fire. Gets colder out here than a witch's teat in a brass brassiere."  
  
At that euphemism, so similar to the one he had used less an hour ago, Jaskier was sold. Pompous prick or not, he decided then and there that he and Casper would be friends. With the smile still crinkling his features and a small weight lifted off his chest, he didn't think as he went to grab the other's outstretched hand.  
  
"Just what do you think you're doing?"  
  
Both men's heads snapped in the direction of the sharp voice.  
  
"Where are your gloves? Do you _want_ to switch bodies?"  
  
There, at the edge of the orange sphere of light created by the fire, stood a short and stocky figure. Jaskier couldn't see her face, but her voice - deep, raspy in a pleasant way - was somewhat familiar. As soon as she stepped into the light, however, he let out a high-pitched shriek, falling off his rock-stool and onto his arse.  
  
"Blimey. Almost forgot. Thank you..." Casper swayed a bit where he stood, squinting at the dwarf. "Uh, who are you?"  
  
"Casper, get the others - " Jaskier started scrambling at the ground for his crutches, attempting to stand. "She's - she's one of them! She tried to kidnap me, back in the jungle - she's _one of them_!"  
  
Narra rolled her eyes just as Casper's widened. He directed his hand towards her - in turn, she raised both of her own in supplication. "Stop! I'm here to help."  
  
Jaskier had gotten one leg under him, though it shook terribly. From fear or weakness, or both, he wasn't sure. His voice cracked. "Like hell you are!"  
  
In the background, he heard the rest of their party going to arms. They had been alerted by his cries, saw the newcomer and immediately assumed the worst. Geralt was still unconscious, shirtless and bandaged and propped up against a large rock with a blanket around his waist. His brow twitched at the commotion.  
  
Magic crackled to life at Casper's fingertips, Jaskier finding himself yet again in the crosshairs. He finally managed to stand but it was shaky and in his panic, accidentally put too much weight on his bad leg. An explosion of pain had it folding like a newborn fawn - his ears rang and the world veered dangerously before going temporarily black.  
  
He pitched backwards but his journey to the ground was abruptly halted when something sturdy caught him, jostling him about. The blackness had only lasted for a moment but now the campsite swam before him, mere fuzzy shapes and awfully bright points of light.  
  
"She's taken him hostage!"  
  
Ciri's shrill voice, the sound of her blade being unsheathed.  
  
"What? No I haven't."  
  
Yen spoke next, voice dangerous. "Release him. Now."  
  
"If I do that, he'll fall." For good measure, while slinging his arm over her neck to keep him supported - not particularly easy, as he stood much taller than her and his gangly, too-long human legs dragged on the ground - Narra yanked her bow free and tossed it at Casper's feet. "The poor bloke only fainted. See?" A gloved hand tapped his cheek and he babbled incoherently in protest, struggling to get a grip on the world again. "He's just fine. I mean him no harm. Not anymore, at least."  
  
"Oh, stop being so hostile. She has nice braids. I like her." Annika, rather belligerently, as she stumbled to Yen's side and winked at Narra. She, like most of their party, was - for lack of a better term - high as a kite. "Hey, you - d'you want to see the lizard I found?"  
  
Narra blinked. "Um - "  
  
Yen snatched the witch’s gown, yanking her back. "Quiet, Annika."  
  
Just then, before a fight could break out, Geralt's rough, groggy voice cut through the mayhem like a knife. He had sat up as best he could, his stern, sweaty face bathed in firelight.  
  
" _Enough_." He swallowed thickly around a dry patch in his mouth. His eyes were glued to Jaskier, who hung off the dwarven woman like a ragdoll but he forcefully tore them away and jerked his head towards her bow. "It was you back there, wasn't it?"  
  
She nodded slowly.  
  
"Right." He shot a look at Yen, who seemed the most hesitant of the bunch. "I want to hear what she has to say." 


	82. Chapter 82: Halloween Special!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The closest thing I could find to 'halloween' in the Witcherverse was Saovine (basically just Samhain) so we'll go with that! This chapter is set on Saovine night (the last day of oct) and Jaskier keeps saying "new year" because google told me that's how their calendar works.
> 
> Foxes and deer are two of my favorite animals, which is why I used them here :) deer especially, I love them so much I have a big ole tattoo of one right on my chest! I thought they suited Geralt and Jaskier pretty well too (even tho Geralt is the ~big scary lobo blanco~)
> 
> Also I had way too much fun with this and it ended up being...not short omfg. I hope you enjoy it all the same! And happy Halloween! 🎃

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt pines for twenty-four hours straight. Oh, and ghosts. Lots of ghosts. Kind of inspired by a questline in one of the games where Dandelion makes Geralt recite poetry with him :~) it's called "the heat of day."

**Several years prior, somewhere in the outskirts of Toussaint…**  
  
Jaskier slammed his pint down on the table and raised both hands with a grand flourish, nearly knocking over a barmaid’s tray as she scooted by. “The theme is _animal kingdom_.”  
  
“I said no.”  
  
“No, you said ‘fuck off, bard.’”  
  
“And I meant it.”  
  
“I’m sure, though it's very hard to take you seriously so soon after rubbing ointment all over your precious Witcher bits.” Jaskier glanced pointedly at Geralt’s lap, referencing a large alghoul bite below his left arsecheek. He'd been overrun in a cave that morning. “Anyway, you _technically_ haven’t turned down my invitation, so I’m going to assume that - ”  
  
“Haven’t I? My mistake.” Geralt knocked back the rest of his drink and signaled for another before leveling the bard with a serious look. “I am not going to your party. Better?”  
  
The lofty airs Jaskier had been putting on dissolved and he let out an unbecoming, childish whine. “Why _not_?”  
  
“Do you really have to ask?”  
  
“But it’s not just a party, it’s a masquerade _ball_! For which I have put together the _perfect_ ensemble, if I do say so myself.” He gestured to the mountainous pile of organza and silk on the seat beside him. “Really, what better way to celebrate Saovine and kick off the new year than with an upscale, mysterious, _sensual_ \- ”  
  
“Jaskier. Believe me when I say I would rather grapple with a striga from dusk ‘til dawn than spend the night watching you strut around like a peacock for - "  
  
"That's just silly, Geralt. I'm not going as a _peacock_ \- "  
  
"Let me finish. _For_ a bunch of flaccid, arrogant, noble pricks whose idea of a good time is donning a mask and getting inebriated on honey wine.”  
  
“But think of the food! And the women, oh the _women_ \- ”  
  
The necrophage must have still been working its way out of his system because Geralt's lower body was suddenly racked by a flash of pain that had him angrily leaning into the table and baring his teeth.  
  
"Bad enough that you follow me around like a motherless pup, but to continue inviting me to these pointless functions - why? Have you no friends?" _Stop_ , a voice in his head demanded, but he paid it no mind. "Or maybe you're just as idiotic as the crowd you're so desperate to please. Either way, I'm not going, and that's final."  
  
His words seemed to have hit home because Jaskier’s smile faltered and Geralt found he had to avert his gaze, aware of a funny feeling in the pit of his stomach that he attributed to too much ale and too little food. Seconds later, the smile was back, though not nearly as bright as it had been before.  
  
“All right. Have it your way, you stubborn arse.” Jaskier downed the rest of his drink and stood, hoisting the costume into his arms. Before he made to leave, he gave Geralt a meaningful look. “Just so you know, I continue inviting you because _you_ are my friend and I care about your well-being. If you'd rather waste away in the tavern so be it, but don't call me an idiot for trying to get you to enjoy your life.”  
  
The funny feeling intensified and though Jaskier hovered by the table, waiting for some sort of acknowledgement, Geralt refused to look at him, returning to his drink with an apathetic grunt.  
  
“If you change your mind, festivities begin at sunset. Palais du Charlet, at the edge of town. Massive castle. Can’t miss it.” No response, not even a second glance. Jaskier sighed. “Take care, Geralt.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Later that evening, the Witcher found himself eating his words. Jaskier was right - the castle was massive. Ancient and crumbling, likely abandoned for centuries. Grudgingly, he stood at its entrance, the sounds of music and merriment spilling out into the courtyard.  
  
The sun had set hours ago and the party – or ball, or whatever the fuck it was – was in full swing. As he stalked up to the door, a few drunken noblemen and ladies stumbled by, laughing raucously, their crystalline glasses overflowing with champagne.  
  
Hardly anyone paid him any mind – those that did hid their unsavory glances behind ornate masks fashioned after every animal imaginable - as he shouldered his way through the crowded lobby, towards the banquet hall. Before he could pass through, however, an usher stepped in his way, barring him entry.  
  
“Name?”  
  
“What’s it to you?”  
  
The man’s face was obscured by a mask as well. His was iron, a caricature of a fox with pointed ears, a slender nose, and almond-shaped holes for eyes. “I’ll need it to see if you’re on the guest list.”  
  
Geralt's nostrils flared when he noticed the long roll of parchment in the usher’s hands. Fucking Jaskier. “Of course there’s a list.”  
  
“Unless you’re here as somebody’s second?”  
  
He knew he couldn’t say ‘fucking Jaskier,’ as he wanted to, so he settled on, “the bard, Jaskier.”  
  
“Jaskier, Jaskier…” The man ran his finger down the page, tutting when he couldn’t find the name. “I don’t see a Jaskier here.”  
  
_Fucking Jaskier_. “Julian, then.”  
  
"Julian..?"  
  
Ugh. "Julian Alfred Pankratz, the Shitcount of Shittenhov - "  
  
“Oh. _That_ Julian.” The usher's lips curled in a distasteful sneer. “Very well. I’ll just need to see your mask.”  
  
“Don’t have one.”  
  
“Ah, then I’m afraid I cannot let you in. So sorry.” He clearly wasn’t. “Ta-ta, then.”  
  
This was turning into an ordeal. “I’m not here for the party, I'm - ”  
  
He was cut off as a gaggle of cackling women in costumes shoved by him. The usher didn’t even check his stupid list, only performed a swooping bow and allowed them to enter without a word. When he straightened back up, he squinted at the Witcher.  
  
“You’re still here?" A sigh. "No mask, no entry. Now _shoo_. Off you go.”  
  
Rather than try to reason with an unreasonable man, Geralt decided to take matters into his own hands and pluck the mask right off his unpleasant mug in one quick, fluid motion.  
  
“ _Sir_! That is entirely uncalled for!" He made to grab it but Geralt, in a move that was admittedly a little childish, held it over his head. "Give it back and leave, _immediately_ , or I will be forced to call the guards - ”  
  
Geralt put the mask on, securing its black ribbon tie and leering at him through the fox’s eyes. “Call them, then.”  
  
With that, he slipped into the hall alongside the next wave of guests, leaving the usher a flustered, spluttering mess.  
  
Inside was pure chaos. Dimly-lit, impossibly loud, and jam-packed with hundreds of people. He was about to start walking the perimeter when a familiar voice tickled his ear, reaching him even over the surrounding din - he beelined towards it without hesitation.  
  
“You are my everything, Thrissa. Your face is as lovely – nay, lovelier than the moon itself, your hair as radiant as spun starlight. Your eyes like two, uh…fossils.” Geralt groaned. Jaskier's words were slurring. “No, no, not fossils. Like the – the autumn leaves! Spellbinding. Ethereal. Not to mention your _other_ assets. Simply _divine_.”  
  
An obnoxious, grating giggle. “Your reputation precedes you, Julian. I’ve heard you idly wag your tongue like this at all the ladies.”  
  
“The spurious lies of those who would keep us apart. I assure you they’re not true. And that my tongue is capable of far more than idle wagging.”  
  
The Witcher cringed. He was laying it on awfully fucking thick. Must’ve been desperate.  
  
“Oh? And what, pray tell, can I expect of this magic tongue of yours?”  
  
The subsequent filth Jaskier whispered in her ear became clearer as Geralt neared their location and he was gripped with the powerful urge to cut his own off. The woman gasped, and it sounded like she might have been fanning herself.  
  
“Down _there_? Why, I’ve never heard of such a thing - with your _mouth_? It can't be _sanitary_!”  
  
“Tell you what - why don’t you meet me in the cellar after my next set and let me show you just how sanitary this mouth can be.”  
  
What the fuck did that even _mean_? Geralt shook his head, refusing to dwell on it, and before poor Thrissa could stammer out a response he shoved through one last wall of people and finally caught sight of his sloppy, drunken, imbecilic bard.  
  
Though…not as sloppy as he'd imagined. Jaskier was leaning casually against the wall, the candelight above casting a warm glow upon the top of his head. He was sporting a sheer, white-gold organza blouse with short, ridiculously puffy sleeves and silk trousers to match. His mask, also gold, was that of a deer with long, curved antlers and two large, oval holes that drew focus to his doe-like eyes.  
  
The woman he had been speaking to - a buxom blonde whose face was obscured by that of a goat - was hanging off his arm, shoving her massive 'assets' in his face. She eagerly agreed to his proposition and he turned his head, peering over the crowd to locate the wine cellar door.  
  
When he saw Geralt staring at them, however – his identity pretty obvious, even with the mask – his eyes widened monumentally before crinkling around a broad smile.  
  
“Geralt!” The Witcher closed the distance between them, not sharing in the other man's excitement. “You rascal, you actually showed up! Where did you get that mask? It's perfect!”  
  
“I stole it.”  
  
Thrissa huffed, crossing her arms over her ample chest and giving Geralt a once-over. “You know this brute?”  
  
“’This brute?’ My dear Thrissa, this is the one and only Geralt of Rivia, the legendary - ”  
  
Geralt nodded to the woman, cutting Jaskier off. “Sorry, but I'll be taking the bard now. Magic tongue and all.”  
  
She went bright red. “Why, I _never_ \- ”  
  
“So I heard.” When she didn’t leave, he tapped his foot impatiently. “Problem?”  
  
She looked to Jaskier for assistance but he had been sipping from his drink and Geralt's crassness made him choke on the wine and a fairly mean laugh. Her plump lower lip jutted out in a pout and she promptly dumped her own beverage over the bard's head before storming off.  
  
Completely unfazed, he pulled a gold handkerchief from his pocket and started dabbing at his face around the mask. “I just love the way you make friends wherever you go. It's really, really special.”  
  
“Come with me.”  
  
“What?”  
  
“Need your help.”  
  
Jaskier finally took a moment to examine the Witcher’s appearance – his plain apparel, his swords. “And here I thought you’d decided to take my advice and have a little fun. What is it this time? If it's another succubus, you can count me out. I'm not up to getting ridden to death by a hoofed hag and I haven’t quite forgiven you for how close it came to that last time.”  
  
“Shouldn’t have followed her in.” He smirked. “Not a succubus - a nightwraith. But we have to get it done before the clock strikes midnight.”  
  
“Or you’ll turn into a pumpkin?”  
  
The Witcher rolled his eyes, grabbed the collar of Jaskier’s fancy blouse, and started towing him through the crowd towards the exit.  
  
“Ow, owow, _careful_! Organza is a very, very delicate material, you’re going to rip – all right, all right, I take the pumpkin bit back – just _please_ stop abusing my fineries!”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The full moon was high in the sky, obscured by a few orange-tinged clouds. The duo made their way out of town, Jaskier struggling valiantly to keep up.  
  
Geralt noticed this and slowed his pace. “How drunk are you?”  
  
“Excessively. Is a nightwraith anything like a noonwraith?"  
  
"Yes."  
  
"You're in need of a poem, then?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
“Gods, but you are a menace.” Jaskier patted around his chest before slipping a hand between the pearly white buttons of his blouse and producing a small blue notebook, the nib of a quill, and a tiny pot of ink. He held the nib between his teeth and talked around it as he undid the lid. “About anything in particular, or do I get a little creative freedom this time?”  
  
“They like riddles.” Geralt paused, sniffing the air before making a sharp left. “Rumor has it she froze to death. Make it about that.”  
  
“Isn’t that just rubbing salt in the wound?”  
  
“No. It will remind her of who she once was.”  
  
Jaskier heaved a dramatic sigh and started scribbling. They were headed towards the cemetery, where the creature had apparently been terrorizing the local farmers.  
  
Nightwraiths were more volatile than their noontime counterparts - their songs compelled anyone who heard them to dance until they died of dehydration, starvation or exposure but, like noonwraiths, they were easily dealt with by reciting poetry.  
  
Once there, Geralt drew his silver blade. Useless against the wraith, but it offered security in case any other horrors decided to make an appearance. Jaskier continued writing fervently, muttering under his breath.  
  
“Quiet.” The cemetery was silent, save for the wind rustling the remaining leaves on the trees. “She should be around here somewhere. If you hear singing, let me know. And cover your ears.”  
  
While the Witcher stood stock still among a congregation of mossy tombstones, listening for any disturbances, Jaskier plopped down in front of one a few paces away. He had to squint very hard to read what he had written in the scant moonlight.  
  
“Does diamond rhyme with horizon?”  
  
Geralt didn’t respond and the bard poked his head up to repeat the question but found himself inches away from the most ghastly, skeletal face he’d ever seen. It was partially obscured by limp strands of black hair and there were two equally black holes where its eyes should have been. Its bone-white, horribly-long fingers curled over the top of the headstone, a pinky extending out and nearly touching his cheek.  
  
He let out a terrified shriek, flying off the ground and darting towards Geralt, who readied his blade. In response, the phantom floated up from where it had been hunched behind the stone, a tattered white dress billowing out around it.  
  
“Geralt - Geralt, it's the - the _thing_!”  
  
Geralt frowned at the creature, the way its blank stare remained fixed on Jaskier. “Just a banshee. They aren't capable of violence. Give her a moment and she'll be on her - ”  
  
Just then, the banshee pointed a finger directly at the bard. He shrunk further back behind Geralt and she unhinged her jaw, releasing a piercing wail. Tears streamed freely down her gaunt cheekbones.  
  
Geralt's eyes widened and he glanced down at the man cowering near his elbow. As quickly as she had appeared and effectively deafened them both, she lurched downwards, phasing through the misty, freshly-turned earth.  
  
“Wait – wh-wh-why me?” Jaskier’s teeth were chattering, breath coming out in small white puffs. “Don’t they only cry for - ”  
  
He stopped short when the mist - that had only been an inch off the ground - raised to mid-thigh height and the pleasant sound of someone humming playfully in the distance reached his ears, had his mouth snapping shut.  
  
Immune to the enchantment, Geralt could not hear the nightwraith's song and was therefore unaware of what was happening behind him. He forced all thoughts of the banshee's cry from his mind and lowered his blade, noticing the mist and the fact that his amulet had started thumping lazily against his chest. "The wraith is nearby. Start reading."  
  
When he was met with silence he turned and found Jaskier had taken a few steps back and was now swaying from side to side. Beneath his mask, Geralt could see his cheeks were flushed.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
“Not sure. Tell me, are my feet on the ground?” The bard’s voice was dreamy, reverent, the mist swirling around him and licking at his waist. Tiny pinpricks of mystical light started floating up off his shoulders and out of his slightly parted lips and Geralt could have kicked himself for not immediately realizing what was happening. “Don’t you hear that lovely singing? Like a chorus of angels. I could just dance and dance to it forever and ever and ever an - ”  
  
“And you will, until you die of exhaustion. Snap out of it, we don't - ”  
  
Jaskier twirled towards him, snatching his hands before he had time to react and giving him a spin. He grunted as the cemetery quickly became a gray and black blur but managed to catch the other’s wrists and hold him fast. It was hard to keep him still, with his body squirming so erratically. The clouds parted and moonlight fell upon the shimmering gold of his mask and blouse, lit his eyes up too spectacularly. The sight made Geralt's head hurt.  
  
“ _Jaskier_.” He gave him a firm shake. “We don’t have time for this.”  
  
“There’s always time for _dancing_ , Geralt.”  
  
With what Jaskier would later describe in his journal as _precious little_ hesitation, Geralt released one of his wrists and used that hand to slap him across the face. The effect was immediate and the little shards of light fizzled and popped, fading into the crisp night air.  
  
“Fuck!” Jaskier reeled, clutching the red spot that bloomed on his cheek and fixing the other man with a look of shock and betrayal. “ _Ow_! What the _hell_ was that for?”  
  
Geralt released a breath. “Welcome back.”  
  
“You slapped me!” All traces of his magic-induced euphoria had gone as quickly as they had come. “ _Why_?”  
  
"Would you rather I let you dance yourself to death? It's almost midnight, you need to start - "  
  
"Why'd you make him stop?" An ethereal, pleasant voice. Hard to tell how close it was, as it filled the cemetery completely, both near and far, loud and quiet. “Ooh! A fox and a deer? What fun!”  
  
Geralt pushed up his mask as another ghostly figure rose up out of the mist. Less unearthly than the banshee, it was a young woman with short, tightly-curled hair, her skin a mottled patchwork of navy and indigo, her lips chapped and raw. There was a silver-and-sapphire circlet upon her head but all its jewels were cracked.  
  
Her unnerving eyes settled on Jaskier's lute. “You're not a deer, you're a minstrel! I _adore_ minstrels!"  
  
He let out a nervous laugh. "E-evening, m'lady." His trembling fingers fumbled with the binding of the notebook. "Would you like us to perform for you?"  
  
She nodded excitedly, exclaiming "yes!" just as the Witcher shot him a look and hissed " _us_?’”  
  
“Us.” Jaskier had the gall to wink. “ _Ahem_. Here goes: I dance with ancient sisters three, but none of them is cold as me. Beneath us mountains rise and fall but we never change the dance at all. What am I?”  
  
When Geralt said nothing, the bard poked him with the notebook, repeating “ _what am I?_ ” through clenched teeth.  
  
“Uh." Of course he'd chosen something that required two voices, the brat. "You are winter.”  
  
The nightwraith giggled – a pleasant, tinkling sound, like windchimes. "Wonderful! I had a sister once, didn't I? We danced all the time. She was so kind. I think I miss her."  
  
Encouraged, Jaskier continued. “I am a precious stone, clear as diamond. Seek me out while the sun’s near the horizon. Though you can walk on water with my power, try to keep me and I’ll vanish within the hour. What am I?”  
  
This time, Geralt did not hesitate. “You are ice.”  
  
She clapped her hands together in delight. “Ice! Mother told me to be careful, that it can cut like a knife, but mother doesn't always know best. She told me he wasn't good for me and she was wrong then, too. May I have a third?”  
  
“A third? Really?” He'd only written the two. Time to improvise. “Shit. I…I, um…”  
  
The specter frowned and tilted her head to the side as he stammered. “Why have you stopped? Do you want to dance again?”  
  
“Nono, no more dancing. Wait, just - just give me a moment.” Think, Jaskier. _Think_. “I am a…no, that’s rubbish…”  
  
Geralt cursed as the wind kicked up around them and her voice changed from lilting and child-like to something deeper, guttural, her eyes flashing with dangerous blue light.  
  
“ _Wait_? He asked me to wait, so I did. Right here in this very spot. He said he'd come. I knew he'd never leave me behind...it was so cold I couldn’t feel my fingers. They turned all sorts of funny colors but I took a nap and it made everything better.” The breath poured out of her in thick clouds of icy crystals and flakes. “Maybe you need a nap, too.”  
  
It was getting harder and harder for Jaskier to catch his own breath. He dropped his notebook, hand flying up to claw at his throat. The air he did suck in was cold, painfully so, and his lungs and chest screamed in protest.  
  
He lurched forward and Geralt gripped his elbow, positioning himself between the two though he knew it wouldn’t do much good. He glowered at the nightwraith. “Enough. I have the third.”  
  
"Oh? Let's hear it, then." She leered at Jaskier. " _He_ has to finish it. Think he can do it without his breath?"  
  
“He can." Geralt cleared his throat. His delivery was rushed and not nearly as theatrical as the bard's, but it would have to do. A rhyme he remembered from his early days at Kaer Morhen, that the other boys had crafted during stealth training. "I cannot be seen, cannot be felt. Cannot be heard, cannot be smelt. I lie behind stars and under hills, and empty holes I fill. I come first and follow after, end life and kill laughter. What am I?”  
  
Jaskier was still gasping for air, hands gripping Geralt's arm tight enough to bruise. The Witcher caught his chin between his thumb and pointer finger, tilting his head back and staring directly into frantic, watery blue eyes.  
  
“Come on, Jaskier. You can do it. What am I?”  
  
“Ha! He can't. Look at him!” She took one step closer, then another, her tone cruel and mocking. “He's turning _blue_!”  
  
She was nearly upon them when finally, with Geralt’s encouraging gaze his only lifeline, Jaskier was able to croak out a rasping, “ _you are darkness_.”  
  
All at once, the suffocating atmosphere surrounding them abated. Jaskier’s knees crumpled but Geralt caught him before he could disappear into the mist.  
  
And the nightwraith was beaming at them, those same pinpricks of light that had been surrounding the bard earlier now coming off her in droves through cracks in her skin, fracturing her appearance.  
  
“The darkness took the pain away. It was my friend.” She closed the space between them but this time there was no malevolence, no fear. The blackened tips of her fingers brushed Geralt's cheek. “You must be, too. Nobody ever wants to be my friend. They dance and dance until they get sleepy and leave me all alone.”  
  
“’Sleepy.’” Jaskier, who was taking relieved gulps of fresh autumn air. “ _Right_.”  
  
Geralt nudged him in the ribs, hard, and he doubled back over with a wheeze. Gold eyes turned back to the nightwraith, his voice gentle. “How do you feel?”  
  
The parts of her body that had been enveloped in blue light started to fade before their eyes. “Better, I think." Her smile was sad, longing. She sounded more mature now, no longer wistful and dreamy. "All that waiting. I was bitter, so bitter because he never came but hearing such passion from the mouths of two beautiful lovers has restored my faith. I'm ready, now. Thank you."  
  
With that, and a breathy sigh, she opened her arms and dissolved completely into white and blue crystals. The mist evaporated as they passed through it and when they fell upon the ground, they melted instantly. It was a peaceful, but marvelous process.  
  
Seconds later, Jaskier burst into laughter.  
  
Geralt squinted at him. "What now?"  
  
"Lovers? No, _beautiful_ lovers? You called me, in short, a friendless wastrel not four hours ago and - _beautiful lovers_." He tried to compose himself but simply saying the phrase out loud had him crumbling again. Despite himself, Geralt felt the corner of his own mouth twitch in amusement. "I mean, should we have told her? It's so, it's so bad to laugh, I just - she thought you and I - ? And that helped her pass on? Oh, gods, I need to sit down."  
  
Geralt sat beside him on a tombstone. "Ridiculous."  
  
"Poor girl. Watch her find out the truth and come back to haunt us." His laughter was dying down to soft, amused chuckles, his hand massaging his chest to chase away the lingering cold. Both men lapsed into a pensive silence, until he noticed the time. "Geralt?”  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"Do you know why we have parties on Saovine night?" When he received a half-shrug in response, Jaskier gazed up at the sky, the stars winking at him from above. “It's because it is considered dreadful luck to be standing still when the twelfth bell rings. So we dance, to prove to something somewhere up there that we care about our crops or our finances or…something.”  
  
“Your specificity is greatly appreciated.” Geralt’s voice dripped with sarcasm, though his eyes were drawn to the church’s clock tower. As if on cue, the twelve bells signaling the stroke of midnight started to ring. “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
“I'm glad you asked. See, you’ve whisked me far, far away from the ball and now I’m left without a dancing partner. Unless that banshee feels like shaking some leg.” Jaskier's mask had been sitting on his forehead but he pulled it back over his eyes and stood, offering Geralt a hand. "I think you owe me this one.”  
  
“You’re joking.”  
  
“Afraid not. _Lover_.”  
  
Geralt stared at his hand as the sixth bell rang. It would have been so easy to deny him, to head back into town and collect his reward and leave the bard to prance around in the cemetery alone.  
  
Why, then, did he find himself taking the other man’s hand as if under some sort of spell? Jaskier’s palm was soft and a little clammy. A few callouses from a night of strumming the lute provided a pleasant amount of friction against his own.  
  
“After all this, I think the only logical next step is elopement. Get Roach, gallop off into the sunrise, the whole thing.”  
  
“You're pushing it.”  
  
Jaskier grinned. The ninth bell rang, then the tenth. At the sound of the eleventh, he closed the space between them and started a slow dance. The steps were simple, repetitive, making it easy for Geralt to follow his lead.  
  
“I can’t believe you slapped me. In the face, no less.”  
  
Geralt's other hand hovered awkwardly before settling upon the gentle curve of a narrow waist. “You were under a spell.”  
  
“Still hurt.” Jaskier’s eyes sparkled in the moonlight. "It's definitely going to leave a mark.”  
  
“Think you'll live?”  
  
“Not according to the banshee. Speaking of, do they make mistakes? They must. Nobody’s perfect. Maybe she was having a bad day? Or _maybe_ my mask scared her - ”  
  
“Jaskier.” Banshees were a rare occurrence, an ill omen. When they wailed for someone it usually meant they would be dead within the year. Perhaps a few, if they were lucky. Geralt would later consult Yen about it in private, but in that moment decided to avoid the question. “Do you ever stop talking?”  
  
“Do you not know the answer to that by now?”  
  
Some time after the bells had stopped ringing, they made their way back to the inn. When they passed the castle they caught sight of a large crowd of inebriated nobles burning a small figurine of Falka over a raging bonfire.  
  
He received his coin from the farmer and used it to pay for both of their night’s stay. For some reason, as they neared their rooms, Thrissa came to mind. Geralt glanced down at the bard plodding tiredly beside him.  
  
“You're not going to try making amends with your 'everything?’”  
  
“My what? Oh, _ha_.” Jaskier’s face broke out in a sleepy smile that the Witcher would later, while aggressively sharpening his sword and mentally reviewing the day, deny had some genuine happiness creeping into his disingenuous sneer. “To be honest, I can't even remember her name. Was it Clarissa? No…Alyssa?”  
  
“Neither.”  
  
“Hmm.” The bard pretended to think on it. “As it turns out, I’d much rather bring in the new year sleazing around the cemetery with my dear _friend_. It's fucked, isn’t it?”  
  
“Fucked.” Geralt agreed, handing Jaskier the notebook he had dropped earlier. His next words came out stiff and jolting. "What I said before, it wasn't...I didn't...”  
  
Before he could finish the thought, Jaskier popped up on the tips of his mud-stained boots and planted a quick kiss on his cheek, where the nightwraith had touched him. His skin burned at the contact, not a blush but a strange, prickling heat.  
  
“Bygones, Geralt. 'Night.”  
  
The Witcher lingered in the hall after Jaskier tossed him a cheeky salute and traipsed off to bed. Through the closed door he heard the other's bedframe creak, heard him curse when he found his mattress was filled with straw.  
  
After a moment, his fingers came up to touch his cheek. He'd seen the bard use the same gesture for a multitude of purposes in the past. A way of saying hello, expressing gratitude, bidding farewell...try as he might, he couldn't figure out which one this fell under.  
  
The nightwraith's words played back in his head then and he snorted, dropping his hand and turning to open his own door. _Ridiculous_. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The banshee wailing for Jaskier was a nod to the second arc, nothing more :) please don't kill me :)


	83. Chapter 83

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sorry Narra, ily and all but after rewriting this chapter 3 times I have discovered my brain is at max OC dialogue capacity! It was between you and the lizard, and the lizard won because it doesn't talk. Also Casper is basically just a young Gandalf to me now, change my mind (pls, I'm begging you, I have an irrational childhood fear of Gandalfs Grey, White and/or Kawaii)
> 
> ALSO the flashback at the end is skippable if you'd prefer not to read it. It just offers some more context for Jaskier's journal/Geraltography and a lil fluff for da boys since I've been giving them such a hard time lately.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Narra spills some tea, Geralt is way too soft for Jaskier, and they make it to the desert. Woohoo! Next chapter they get doted on by some villagers, put on some spiffy new clothes, and encounter something sinister out in the dunes.

Narra helped Jaskier sit by the fire. He'd recovered from fainting and was lucid again, for the most part. He giggled raucously when her gloved hand slipped. “Did you just feel me up?”  
  
She raised a brow when he attempted a wink and failed miserably. “Are you drunk?” The question was met with more than a few blank stares from the crowd. Annika held out her good hand, upon which a tiny lizard was chomping on a lettuce leaf. “Oh, you’ve got a hatchling there. No, I don't want it, though it's very...very nice. Um. Sorry, are you _all_ drunk?”  
  
“No.” Yen, her face a mask of doubt. “Are you sure it's not a trap, Geralt?”  
  
“Would I let her within a mile of camp if I wasn’t? Let her touch Jaskier?” He squinted at Narra. “What do you want?”  
  
She sneered. “That's a lovely way of saying thank you. I can really feel the gratitude.”  
  
“For what? Nearly killing us with that explosion?” He bared his teeth right back at her in a humorless smile. “Don’t let my appearance fool you. I won’t hesitate to cut you down the second I think you're up to something.”  
  
“Then why vouch for me?”  
  
On her, he smelled none of the curling, inky blackness that poured off Vrart’s various shifted forms. He did sense sadness, though. More fear than rage. She seemed a mere shadow of the spirited, cruel dwarf he had faced in the jungle. In fact, she seemed harmless. He needed to know why that was.  
  
“I want to know why you helped us back there. And why you’re here now.”  
  
“Fair enough.” She sighed, shrugging her pack off her shoulders and reaching a hand inside. Yen immediately went for her blade but the dwarf rolled her eyes and drew out a neat brown bundle, gesturing to the pot hanging above the fire. “Jackelope, caught it about an hour ago. You lot look like you could use a proper meal.” Her eyes, a vivid hazel, were sizing them all up. “Or a bucket of cold water.”  
  
Yennefer eyed the bundle. She had been planning on rehydrating some jerky in the boiling pot but fresh meat was always preferable, especially with how injured they all were. Considering it wasn’t poisoned, of course.  
  
She cast a furtive glance at Geralt, whose nostrils flared – after a moment, he nodded.  
  
Jaskier snickered, breaking the tension. “What the fuck is a jackelope?”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
They spent the next hour sitting by the fire, dining on a surprisingly hearty jackelope stew and listening to the dwarf recount her tragic tale. The violent deaths of her twin sister and the human they’d been traveling with, the terrifying night she’d spent with Vrart, knowing at any moment he could change his mind and eat her, too. It was sobering, a metaphorical bucket of cold water for all of them.  
  
She told most of it without much feeling, but her voice cracked painfully when she uttered her sister’s name. That alone was enough to bring tears to Jaskier's eyes. “I’m so sorry that happened to you, Narra. I can't begin to imagine how awful it must have been.”  
  
“Nothing to do about it now, short of gutting the beast myself. As for why I’m here, I really only came to warn you. You need to be more careful. It knows everything about you. Where you are, where you’re going. Like it has eyes and ears everywhere.”  
  
“From what I remember it doesn’t actually have ears.” Jaskier interjected, trying to lift the mood.  
  
“Gloves, too. You should all be wearing them. Here, I’ve got a few to spare.” The dwarf rummaged around in her bag, producing several pairs of black gloves and handing them out. “Rumor has it the affliction’s spread all the way to the outer limits of the country. Even the shifter - ”  
  
“Demon.” Annika corrected casually. "Upper-level. And if you want to talk dead sisters, I've got you covered."  
  
“Thanks, but - _demon_? I…I thought it was just some fucked up doppler.” Narra took the information in stride, however, and composed herself quickly. “Right. Even the _demon_ seemed concerned with how fast the curse is traveling.”  
  
Geralt tilted his head to the side in thought before voicing something that had been on his mind.  
  
"In the jungle you mentioned you’ve been with the company a long time. Knew Vrart,” the name weighed heavily on his tongue, though they had surmised it held no power – it was the other one, Valefor, that summoned him, “since childhood. The original Vrart. And your sister’s death, while tragic, doesn’t seem reason enough to leave the others behind. How can we trust you when you've just turned your back on them?”  
  
Jaskier frowned. "Geralt, I think she's more than - "  
  
“It's all right. Can’t you hear my heartbeat, Witcher? Does it not ring true?”  
  
“There are ways of controlling that.”  
  
Narra scoffed. “Fine. If you must know, very few of my old friends are left. Those who remain refuse to see what’s really going on. I can’t help them. I've come to terms with that.”  
  
Yen spoke through a mouthful of jackelope leg, almost laughable in contrast to how elegantly she was perched on her rock. “What d'you mean?”  
  
“I guess I should start at the beginning. There are…strangers who have infiltrated our ranks. They’re not right. I - I didn’t notice them until the sh - the demon dragged me back to camp that night but honestly, thinking back, we’ve worn our masks every day since the job started. They could have been there all along, manipulating us.”  
  
“Who are they?” Geralt, his voice hoarser than usual, though he did a good job of keeping most of his exhaustion out of it.  
  
“The way they talk, I think they might be from some sort of cult, or church, or something. One that worships the demon, or whoever’s behind all this. They’re always speaking of a higher power, of better days to come. Typical fanatical jargon. You see it a lot in the mountains.”  
  
Casper poked his head up from where he had been lounging on a bedroll and puffing on a red oak pipe. “A cult, you say? Which one? I happened to write my dissertation on the Eternal Fire, at Oxenfurt. Fascinating subject, but scary. Very scary.” He peered around the campfire at their odd group. “Actually, I don’t think there’s a soul among us they wouldn’t arrest on sight. One and a half Witchers, a dwarf, three sorcerers…ah, maybe our dear Jaskier.”  
  
“Your dear Jaskier has been there and done that, thank you.” The bard in question raised his hand, lazily waving it in the air. Feeling inexplicably tired as the effect of the herbs subsided to a dull numbness, he had also chosen to lay horizontally, his head cradled in Geralt’s warm lap. “Tried hanging me a few years back, for heresy. They claimed I soiled one of their holy fountains, which is just _preposterous_. Like I would _ever_ \- ”  
  
Geralt caught his hand when it wandered too close to the flame and held it still. “You forget I watched you soil it. Reprobate.”  
  
A scandalized gasp. “Truly? I thought you were busy intimidating that priest. All right, fine. I did it. But only because they wouldn’t stop calling you names.”  
  
Casper chuckled. “As you should, Jaskier. As you should. Nasty bunch of xenophobes.”  
  
“ _Anyway_. I’m not sure which cult it is. All I know is they’re willing to do whatever it takes to complete the job. As you saw.” Narra nodded to Geralt, desperate to get the conversation back on track as Ciri innocently inquired after what Jaskier meant by ‘soiled,’ causing his face to go bright red. “That woman was one of them. I mean it when I say they will do _anything_. Sacrifice themselves, my friends, kill any one of you without mercy.”  
  
“Oh, well.” Annika gave a lofty little shrug. She was laying upside down with her bare feet propped up on a rock, the lizard climbing freely about the front of her gown. “We’re accustomed to people wanting to kill us. Especially without mercy. If anything, it’s more of a shock when they don’t.”  
  
“How are you all staying so calm? Are we speaking the same language?” Narra shook her head in disbelief, having to raise her voice to speak over Jaskier, who was spluttering out ‘well, see, the thing is, when I say _soiled_ I mean – perhaps when you’re older we’ll, uh, have that…chat…gods.’ “ _Listen_. During our briefing before the ambush, they insisted we take out the bard and the child first. To break _you_ , Geralt of Rivia. You understand? They know your strengths _and_ weaknesses. Hell, most of us slathered ourselves in mud and the juice of pine needles just to conceal our scent from you. And I, along with several other _expert_ marksmen, had my arrow aimed at _your_ daughter’s head. Just couldn’t get a clear shot.”  
  
That had everyone falling silent. Geralt’s jaw was suddenly working overtime, clenching and unclenching as he processed the information. He spoke after a moment through gritted teeth. “What else?”  
  
“They knew you’d be in cuffs.”  
  
Yen looked alarmed, then. “ _How_?”  
  
Of course, none of them vocalized the shared thought that it might be due to the demon’s influence over Geralt. They weren’t keen on alerting the dwarf, or anyone really, to that particular vulnerability.  
  
“Don’t know, but apparently the curse is stronger than the dimeritium, so. Like I said.” She pointed to where Geralt’s hand was still holding Jaskier’s. “ _Gloves_.”  
  
“Fantastic.” He gently untangled his fingers, ignoring the bard’s disgruntled moan. “I’m assuming they also know where we're headed now.”  
  
“Aye, but I still think it’s your best bet. They only cut you off in the canyon because they’re not equipped to traverse the desert safely and will have to stop somewhere for supplies. That’ll put you at least a few days ahead. I might have also… _tampered_ with their horses while they regrouped. Not sure what it’ll do, but it’s something.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened. “What did you do to the horsies?”  
  
“Nothing terrible. I wouldn’t spend the night here, either, if I were you. Get right back on the road as soon as you’re able.”  
  
“Anything else?”  
  
“Aside from the rabid cultists breathing down your neck? No, not really. They were careful not to say too much around the rest of us.”  
  
“And what about you?”  
  
Geralt's unsaid offer for her to join them hung in the air but she only shrugged and gazed thoughtfully into the fire.  
  
“My first instinct was to run, and I’m going to follow it. I didn’t help you out of the goodness of my heart, you know. It wasn’t even for revenge, though I want it badly. I – I can’t explain why, or how, but I just know something terrible is going to happen if they succeed. Call it a…general feeling of badness. One I can’t shake, and one that’s keeping me from going with you.” She glanced back up at Geralt, eyes steely. “I’ve done all I can to give you an edge, though, so don’t fuck it up.”  
  
He gave a solemn nod. Under any other circumstances, he thought she might have made a fine friend. Though suspicious at first, after getting to know her he found himself liking her no-nonsense attitude. “I won’t. Thank you.”  
  
Though she didn’t plan on traveling with them, even with Jaskier and Annika insisting she did, Narra hung around the camp for a little while longer to warm herself and rack her brain, in case she had missed any important information. Heeding her warning, they started packing their things back up while soaking up the remnants of the fire.  
  
Geralt turned to the dwarf. “So what made the explosion? That blast was too large for dragon's dream.”  
  
“Ah, very good. It was actually Zerrikanian powder.” Narra reached into her quiver, carefully pulling out one of the arrows in question and handing it to him. “Requires no flame, just a bit of friction.”  
  
He examined it, tapping its hollow tip with his finger before passing it back with a grunt of approval.  
  
“Clever.”  
  
She smiled. “My sister’s invention.”  
  
“Zer – two r’s?” That was Jaskier. In the interim, he had pulled out a notebook, a pot of ink, and a quill and was using his good knee as a table. He released a satisfied hum when she nodded. “Two r’s. Got it. _Zerr – i – ka – nian._ ”  
  
Geralt looked down at what he was doing for the first time, eyes narrowing when he recognized the journal's worn blue covering, saw Jaskier flip to the section he had long ago playfully labeled ‘Characters.’  
  
He hadn't seen the damn thing since they evacuated the coast, had half-hoped the bard accidentally left it behind. “Jaskier. Is that what I think it is?”  
  
“Why yes, Geralt. Yes it is.”  
  
“Not this again. You know I - ”  
  
“Don’t approve. Think it’s _silly_. I know, I know.”  
  
_Not to mention grossly overexaggerated_ , Geralt thought. "If I remember correctly, according to that book I'm seven fucking feet tall and capable of breathing fire."  
  
The bard paused thoughtfully on his description of their new ally, examining her confused expression before scrawling ‘ _red hair, impressive chin braids – touched my heart this evening...and my arse._ ’  
  
“Ha! Quite the flirt, aren't you?” She had read the note over his shoulder, laughing as she spoke. “It was an accident. And you're not my type.”  
  
Jaskier smirked and penciled in the words ‘poor eyesight’ beside her name, which drew another surprised laugh. He then turned to Geralt, smirk evolving into a cheeky grin. "Breathing fire, shooting it out of your hands. What's the difference, really? All the best stories bend the truth at least a little bit, Geralt.”  
  
Casper blew a ring of thick, white smoke into the starry night sky. “Say, am I in that book?”  
  
“Of course! Right here…” Jaskier skated his finger down to the bottom of the page, frowning when he couldn’t find the mage’s name. “Could’ve sworn I…ah, well. I’ll give you a whole page, then. Let’s see…” he squinted at Casper before returning to the journal, speaking as he wrote. “ _Kind eyes. Smells of books. Must be an expert at dating_.” He underlined the last word with a broad smile. “There, a little archeology joke for you.”  
  
Geralt shook his head as Casper laughed. “Brilliant! If only that last part was true. Women aren’t exactly enamored by men in my profession. Just ask Yennefer.”  
  
He winked at the sorceress as she sauntered back over to them, and she returned it with a withering look. “Careful, you. Anyway, we’d better get going. Are you sure you’re all right to travel, Geralt?”  
  
“I’m fine.”  
  
“Yennefer?” Jaskier started to stand. “Mind helping me into the caravan?” Geralt followed suit, but he quickly shook his head. “N-no, it’s all right. Put out the fire with Casper, yeah? I’ll see you in there.”  
  
They said their goodbyes to Narra, with Jaskier trying one last time to get her to change her mind. She shook her head, but placed a hand on his shoulder and looked meaningfully into his eyes.  
  
“I think there’s a boat waiting for me in Skellige, but I do hope you survive this, bard. I'll be sure to keep an eye out for that book of yours. Sounds like an all right read.”  
  
Arm slung over Yen’s shoulder, he returned the gesture with a smile. “And _I’ll_ be sure to dedicate a whole chapter to the handsy dwarven lass who saved our lives. And send you a signed copy, wherever you are.”  
  
She chuckled. “Ach. So unbearably cocky.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Within the next hour they were back on the road. They chose to keep their previous arrangements the same and Ciri offered to pilot the caravan for the next couple of hours, allowing Jaskier and Geralt a little more time to recover from the day's excitement.  
  
As the horses started moving, Geralt sat beside the bard. The wound in his shoulder wasn't healing as it expediently as it should have been. A side effect of the dimeritium, he knew. His fever had broken, thanks to the herbs, but his whole body ached.  
  
None of this had escaped Jaskier, his concern only doubling as he watched the Witcher struggle to make it through the evening, though he'd decided not to mention anything until they had some privacy.  
  
"Geralt?"  
  
"Hm?"  
  
"What happened with Vrart..." He rested his head against the wall, finding the jostling of the caravan pleasant when they weren't running for their lives. As he spoke, Geralt stared pensively out the shattered opposite window, face gleaming with sweat. "Like I said, it wasn't your fault. That night, he told me he was only able to get into your head while you were in my body. Which is a mindfuck on its own, I know, but...if anyone's to blame, it's me. Not you."  
  
"Doesn't matter." He released a long breath. "My mistakes are what caused this. There were signs and I should have seen them for what they were."  
  
"All of us should have! We _all_ made mistakes." Jaskier turned to Geralt then, face unusually serious. "You aren't in this alone, Geralt, and I..." He fished around in his pants pocket, pulling out a chunky, greenish stone key. "I won't make you do anything. Not that I could, stubborn as you are, but...I'm asking - no, _begging_ you to reconsider."  
  
Geralt's previously thoughtful expression evolved into a glare. "How did you get this?"  
  
His only reply was a sheepish grin.  
  
"You stole it." A groan, because he did not look forward to facing the sorceress's wrath when she found out. "You stole from Yen."  
  
"Borrowed! Look, if you won't do it permanently, at least take them off long enough to heal. If you feel anything strange, anything at all, tell me and I'll...I'll wallop you over the head with this. Knock you right out and put them back on." Jaskier shook one of his crutches. " _Please_ , Geralt."  
  
The Witcher continued glaring at him for a moment but that imploring look in the other's eyes always was hard to resist, had him conceding almost embarrassingly fast. He removed the cuffs - _temporarily_ , he made sure the other knew - and felt immediate relief, cool and soothing as it coursed through his veins.  
  
While he healed and the caravan trundled lazily along, the dirt road eventually gave way to miles and miles of sand. At some point Geralt eased the notebook out of a sleeping Jaskier’s hand. He opened it at the marker but found an empty page and decided to flip back to the earlier chapters, to remind himself of a time before dimeritium and demons, curses and cults.  
  
He landed on a small blurb detailing what only he knew to be the first time he realized he was completely at the mercy of those wide blue eyes.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
**Years ago. Early evening, in the heart of Vizima…**  
  
Geralt threw open the double doors of the tavern, storming in and accepting his gold from the barkeep. He'd just defeated a horde of hellhounds that had been terrorizing the city’s inhabitants every night for weeks on end; a difficult task that put him in a foul mood, the kind of which only a hot meal and alcohol could cure.  
  
“Thank you, Witcher. It won’t bring my wee boy back, but I’ll sleep better knowing the pack has been culled by your capable hands.” The barkeep slid a drink across the bar, shaking his head when Geralt started fishing around in the coin purse. “I’m sorry I can’t offer more by way of payment, but this is the busiest we’ve been since those beasts came around. Drinks on me tonight, for as long as you can stand on your own two feet.”  
  
Geralt caught the drink, raising it in a silent acknowledgement of the dead before downing it in one gulp and sliding it back for seconds. “You're going to regret that offer.”  
  
The man chuckled. “Maybe, but you’ve more than earned it.”  
  
With a grunt, Geralt accepted the second drink and requested an order of whatever they were serving up for dinner that night, which turned out to be stew. Typical.  
  
As he waited for his meal, a somber melody filled the tavern. Something similar had been playing when he entered but he hadn’t given it a second thought. When he caught a whiff of familiar, citrus-laced florals, however, his nostrils flared and he immediately whirled around, expecting to find the bard’s goofy face beaming up at him, waiting to be noticed.  
  
It wasn’t. But there, at the farthest corner of the tavern, did sit Jaskier. He was balancing his chair on two legs, his own resting atop a small round table. Geralt couldn’t see his face - his back was to the rest of the room - but could hear him singing in Polish quite plainly.  
  
To his surprise, Jaskier’s tongue danced skillfully over the foreign words. Though beautiful, the song was uncharacteristically sad, like an elegy. Whatever it was didn’t suit the place’s lively, relieved atmosphere at all.  
  
Geralt stood and listened, bittersweet Polish words bringing back distant memories from long, long ago. Crisp evening air. A faceless, red-haired woman in an apron calling him in for supper. She used to sing to him like this while tucking him into bed.  
  
Strange. The choice of song, yes, but also the fact that the bard hadn’t even acknowledged his arrival. Whenever they found themselves in the same city, Jaskier would always somehow divine his location and latch on without a second’s hesitation. Like some sort of parasite.  
  
This was a nice change of pace, Geralt thought.  
  
When his stew arrived, he turned back to the barkeep, jerking his head in Jaskier’s general direction. “What’s that about?”  
  
“Beats me. I don’t much understand those creative types. Been like that for the last few hours, though he seemed uppity enough when I hired him.” A shrug. “As long there’s some sort of music coming out of that instrument of his I could give a rat’s arse.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“The locals do seem to be getting restless, though. Think it’s a bit too intellectual for ‘em.”  
  
Plate and flagon in hand, Geralt headed towards the opposite corner of the tavern, where he looked forward to eating and drinking silence.  
  
As he navigated his way through the crowded space, he heard a table of farmers complaining loudly.  
  
“Oh, make him _stop_. Ruining the mood with that nonsense, he is.” A woman, shooting a look at the back of the bard’s head. “Enough! Give us a jig, you prick!”  
  
It looked like several customers had thrown things because the floor around his table was littered with bits of bread and other refuse. Jaskier paid no mind, kept his back to them and continued languidly strumming his lute as the woman grabbed an apple from her plate and prepared to send it flying.  
  
Before he knew what he was doing, Geralt snatched her wrist, leveling her with a devastating glare. “That's not very nice.”  
  
“He’s been moping all bloody evening. And who the fuck are you? Release me, you mutant." She tried to jerk her hand free, to no avail. “You know, we didn’t come after a long day in the fields just to have some escaped court jester put us to sleep with his dull lullabies.”  
  
“Then go elsewhere.”  
  
“ _Excuse_ me?”  
  
When he was sure she was too frightened to throw the fruit, he released her wrist and plucked it from her fingers, placing it on his own plate. “I said leave. Or sit in silence. The choice is yours.”  
  
Satisfied by her flustered spluttering – and the fact that she was out of ammo - he turned away. For a drawn-out moment he stood at the center of the busy tavern, debating whether or not he should approach the bard – because really, this was a blessing. He was being offered peace and quiet and he would be a fool not to take that and run.  
  
Eventually, however, he muttered a gruff ‘fuck’ and stalked over to where Jaskier was singlehandedly ruining everyone’s evening.  
  
The bard didn’t look up or remove his legs until Geralt slid into the seat across from him, loudly slamming his plate down on the table. There was nothing else on it besides an empty glass and a small pile of coins.  
  
“Ah. Geralt.” He wrinkled his nose. There was no excitement in his tone, his cadence not nearly as jovial as usual. Geralt wasn’t sure why that irritated him more than the alternative. “Thought I smelled you. Very potent today, aren’t we? What _is_ that?”  
  
“Sewage.” Unfortunately, that had been where the hellhounds made their home. “What’s wrong with you?”  
  
Blue eyes blinked back at him, the picture of innocence. “Whatever do you mean?”  
  
“You’re one sad song away from inciting a riot.” Geralt jerked his head over the other’s shoulder to where the table from before was still gawking. “Answer the question.”  
  
“I’m perfectly fine, Geralt.” Jaskier reached for his drink, stopping when he realized it was empty. Geralt caught a slight tremor in his hand as he started distractedly counting the coins. There was a piece of lint among them that he flicked off the table. “Think I can persuade the bartender to sell me a pint for five coppers?”  
  
“You’re lying.”  
  
“And _you’re_ being nosy. Isn't that your whole shtick? Not getting involved in...well, anything? Ever?" When he received no response, he groaned. "I’m just feeling a little under the weather, that’s all.”  
  
“I don’t believe you.”  
  
Geralt didn’t know why he was pressing the matter – it wasn’t like he really cared either way. He’d expected Jaskier to dish out a sob story about some countess or another, and had only come to warn him of the disgruntled masses. Do his part in keeping the bard alive another day and be on his way.  
  
Why, then? Why insist on looking this blessedly quiet gift horse in the mouth?  
  
“Oh, that’s it.” Jaskier bristled. “First, you insult my singing - ”  
  
“I didn’t insult your singing.” A pause, because the night was young. "Yet."  
  
“ – and _then_ you call me a liar?”  
  
Geralt scrutinized him for a moment, then sighed. “You wet your lips.”  
  
“I - _what_?”  
  
“Before you lie. Every time. And your heartbeat - ”  
  
“Are you – stop Witchering me!” Jaskier hastily gathered the coins on the table and undid the first button of his doublet, slipping them into a secret pocket within. “You know what? I think I’ve had quite enough of you for the evening, Geralt. _Ta_.”  
  
As he fumbled with closing the button again, Geralt spotted a suspicious stain on its collar. Small. Dark. He sniffed the air, caught the slightest hint of blood behind the stench of ale.  
  
He found himself half-standing, reaching across the table and snatching the collar. He ignored the way the other man flinched, gesturing at the stain with his eyes.  
  
“What's this, then?”  
  
“It’s nothing. Cut myself shaving. Gods, what’s gotten into you? Everyone’s looking - ”  
  
Jaskier squirmed free and Geralt noticed the spot on his cheek – which he had originally thought to be a shadow – was, in fact, a blossoming bruise. His plump lower lip, always a pleasant shade of pink, looked red and a bit swollen.  
  
“Jask - ”  
  
“I told you it’s _nothing_ \- ”  
  
“Who hurt you?”  
  
“What are you, my keeper? It was nobody – I mean, nothing _happened_. I only…tripped. Onto my straight razor, of course, because I was _shaving_ and…” Jaskier trailed off, puffing his cheeks out and releasing a breath when he realized Geralt wasn’t buying it. “Fine. I was mugged, all right? When I went outside to relieve myself, embarrassingly enough. A pair of brutes held me up at knifepoint while my trousers were still undone. They didn’t like it when I asked if they were taking the piss and whether they might let me finish mine first,” he let out a hollow laugh at his own joke, “so they roughed me up a bit. There. Happy?”  
  
“No.”  
  
“It’s a rhetorical – oh, never mind.” Jaskier pinched the bridge of his nose, willing away a throbbing headache. “Look, I’d really prefer to forget the whole thing and - ”  
  
“What did they take?”  
  
“Here we go. I dunno, Geralt. My dignity? My innocence? My sense of childlike - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.”  
  
A sigh before he started listing the items on the fingers of one hand. “Let’s see. All my coin. Well, minus the five coppers. My mother's brooch. My _journal_ , for whatever reason. That one hurt the most. Had all my notes on our adventures from the last two years or so. Oh, they also took the laces off my boots! I mean, what's _that_ about? Are laces some sort of commodity - ”  
  
As he spoke, Geralt stood. Tracking would be easy, with the bard’s scent still on them. “And what did they look like?”  
  
“One was big, ugly, mean. The other was small, squirrelly. It smelled like they'd just come off a shift at the fishery, or - wait.” Jaskier shook his head, realizing belatedly what the other man meant to do. He'd recognize that eerily calm expression anywhere. “No! Sit back down. Though I would love to see justice, I prefer the poetic kind. Besides, you know better than anyone I can take a few punches and - Geralt, _no_ \- ”  
  
Without a word, Geralt made to leave. He only paused when something caught his sleeve and gently tugged. Not enough to stop him by any means, but when Jaskier spoke again his voice wavered. That alone had Geralt turning back to face him.  
  
“ _Please_.”  
  
The other’s eyes, puffy and bloodshot – perhaps from crying, which only made the Witcher angrier – were desperate. Pleading. Geralt’s own traveled down to where slender fingers were still holding his sleeve. After a moment, he conceded.  
  
“Fine.” He paused, feeling a little awkward as relief and gratitude flooded Jaskier’s face. “What do you want?”  
  
“What I _want_ is for you to sit that lovely arse of yours back down, stick and all, and - ”  
  
“No. That’s not…” Why was this so hard? Geralt ground the words out with no small amount of effort. “The owner, he offered free drinks for the night. For taking care of some hellhounds. What do you want?”  
  
“Oh. Free, you say?” Jaskier’s subsequent grin was light, then, and a strangely pleasant sight. “In that case, vodka. Lots and lots of it. And maybe a slice of lemon. For…scurvy.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes. “Right.”  
  
He was back to babbling, which the Witcher took as a good sign. “And when you’re back I want to hear all about these hellhounds. Were they big? Small? How many teeth? You know, this might make for a nice song… _hounds from hell, in the sewers they dwell_ …” His voice grew distant as Geralt shook his head and padded back to the bar. “ _what an awful sme-e-ell_ …no that - that’s dreadful…”  
  
They spent the rest of the evening sitting in front of the tavern’s hearth as it burned down, drinking copious amounts of liquor and playing gwent. Jaskier was a fierce opponent, and one of the few able to consistently defeat Geralt. Eventually, when his words started to slur and he began ranting about all the improper things he would do to Hemdall, a card he had played, the Witcher decided it was time to haul him upstairs to his room.  
  
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow, which meant he didn’t get to see Geralt wordlessly storm back down the stairs, don his cloak, and exit the tavern in a flurry of black, white and silver.  
  
The next morning, when Jaskier blearily stumbled out of bed in search of water, he found his belongings (blue notebook, brooch, and _laces_ ) sitting innocently on the nightstand as though they had always been there. No coin purse. Probably spent by the brutes before Geralt could find them.  
  
He wasn't sure why, but he found himself immediately opening the journal. Perhaps to make sure it hadn't been messed with, or perhaps because some small part of him hoped Geralt had left any sort of evidence of himself upon its pages.  
  
A silly thought, and when he opened to the first page he found it untouched. ' _The biography of Geralt of Rivia, otherwise known as the White Wolf, Gwynbleidd to the elves. Written by his dearest and handsomest friend, Jaskier, who cares not for titles._ ' How Geralt had resisted messing with that was beyond him. He sighed, went to place it back on the table when he noticed a page had been dog-eared. He never folded pages like that, always used a marker.  
  
There, below his entry on the foglet the Witcher had fought a month or so ago, was a small blurb on hellhounds. Geralt's script was plain, the letters wider than they needed to be, but still incredibly neat.  
  
_'Took down 8 on 11 March in the sewers of Vizima. Adults are about the size of a black bear. Immune to stuns and knockdowns. Sensitive to steel soaked in spectre oil.'_  
  
There were a few other details about the battle, far more professional than Jaskier's usual notes and little doodles. At the very bottom of the page, in smaller handwriting, was an addendum that had his lips curving into a small smile:  
  
_'If I hear you've written a ballad about this, Jaskier, I will feed you to a hellhound myself.'_  
  
Another addendum just below it, beside a teeny tiny droplet of what might have been blood.  
  
_'The big one pissed himself. There's your poetic justice.'_  
  
Needless to say, the ballad Jaskier performed that night - detailing the Witcher's sewer-based heroics, of _course_ \- was so inspired he raked in double what he'd lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt: ok MOM flashback moment but more importantly, why hasn't jaskier noticed me yet  
>   
> oh, and bc I realized I'm starting to use a lot of Witcher jargon (though mostly talking out of my ass), this is reference for the actually canon stuff:  
>  **The Eternal Fire** \- radical religious cult that hates on literally everyone  
>  **Foglet** \- creepy lil bog baddie  
>  **Dragon's dream** \- alchemy, makes big boom  
>  **Zerrikanian powder** \- makes bigger boom  
>  **Hemdall** \- a mythic hero, but really just the most Geralt-y gwent card I could find that wasn't actually Geralt if that makes sense


	84. Chapter 84

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Saw the cutest cow on my run today ;-; <3 it had a little heart-shaped spot on it's nose and...oh. The chapter. Sorry, been stuck in the car talking to my dog a lot.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *ahem* In which Geralt acquires a flower crown, they find a neat statue, and um…yeah, someone DOES get eaten. Next chapter, a glorious battle! Dehydration! I lied, there’s no glory, just the battle and dehydration! Geralt gives Jaskier a sad piggyback ride. 
> 
> This chapter turned out very snippet-y. I hope it doesn't give you a headache. Also I am already tired of the word sand help. Gloves, too, so let's just go ahead and assume most of them are being good and wearing them when necessary. 
> 
> **side note but I took a detour due to a family ~situation~ so I might b updating more regularly than expected**

Night turned to day, and after traveling through the desert for the better part of the afternoon, Casper flagged for them to stop for a break when they came across a large village. It was situated upon neatly-paved stone and surrounded by palm trees. The ragtag group disembarked their respective caravans and none of them had time to address Geralt's currently cuff-less status as they found themselves bombarded by the place's incredibly excitable and equally friendly inhabitants.  
  
It appeared as though Casper was some sort of celebrity among them. A small child almost immediately leapt into his arms and he laughed, positioning her on his hip as he chattered amiably to the villagers in a language the bard didn't recognize.  
  
"What is this place?" Jaskier was perched on the edge of the well they were using to refill their water skins. With the excitement dying down, Casper had settled beside him, still holding the small girl whose unfaltering, brown-eyed stare was starting to creep him out. "Whose _child_ is that?"  
  
She wriggled around and Casper set her down, chuckling when she beelined for Annika, who was trying her best to turn anyone who approached to stone with her glare. "This is the town of Wehemessu. It's about twenty miles from the site, I often come here when I need cheering up. The girl is an orphan...most of the children are. Unfortunately, the plague hit them about five years back and it's been a slow recovery. I try to help out as much as I can, but..."  
  
A flock of women had started gesturing to Jaskier, giggling and murmuring amongst themselves.  
  
Noticing this, he peered back at them dubiously. “What – why are they laughing at me? Do I have something on my face?”  
  
"No, no.” The pleasant laugh lines around the mage’s eyes deepened as he listened and grinned. “They’re saying you’re very pretty.”  
  
“ _Pretty_?” Jaskier offered a tentative wave. It resulted in another fit of giggling and flirting that brought some color to his cheeks. “Yeah, I’ll take it.”  
  
His attention was then drawn to Geralt, who had been overrun by several more villagers who seemed quite fascinated by his height and hair color. One young girl, who couldn’t have been over the age of ten, was holding something behind her back and when she sheepishly went to show it to him his shoulders tensed.  
  
As soon as he saw what it was, however, the tension vanished. Jaskier gawked, mouth hanging open like a guppy’s as the Witcher then closed his eyes and politely leaned forward, allowing her to stand on the tips of her toes and place the delicate crown of cactus flowers upon his head. She took a step back, nodding in approval, and he opened his eyes.  
  
He returned the gesture with a kind smile, even allowing her to touch his amulet, which was thumping softly against his chest. Jaskier’s disbelief melted away - the whole exchange was remarkably adorable and had him swooning, though he resisted the urge to barrel through the crowd and plant a big, sloppy kiss on Geralt’s cheek then and there.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The remainder of their rest stop consisted of a lot more fawning and even more gifts, including bundles of lighter clothes for each of them and an intimidating amount of watermelons delivered by a pack of rambunctious children.  
  
“Um…” Jaskier didn’t have much experience with the fruit but gingerly accepted the slice he was offered as they loaded up their caravans. “What’s with the melons?”  
  
“They know they're my favorite.” Casper, munching away at a slice of his own. “Always delivering boxes to me at work without my asking.”  
  
"Ah." Jaskier took a small bite, reveling in the watery and slightly sweet taste that lingered on his tongue. It was refreshing, but still, the heat was starting to get a bit too much. "Think I’m going to change into these new digs." He gave the gauzy bundle cradled against his chest a little tap. "My leg is sure to pose a problem, though, so send Geralt in if I take too long. Pretty please.”  
  
Casper jokingly saluted him. “Aye, aye. Good luck.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
After about fifteen minutes of the bard cursing and crashing around in the caravan, Casper did send the Witcher in to help.  
  
Geralt rapped impatiently on the back door. “Are you hurt?”  
  
When he received no answer, he tried the knob. Unlocked. Upon catching another string of muttered curses, he barged in.  
  
“I'd prefer to interact with Casper as little as possible. Next time just come to me if you need…help…”  
  
Oblivious to the Witcher’s sudden difficulty with words, Jaskier frowned and turned to him without looking up.  
  
“Did they give me the wrong size? Or maybe the wrong outfit entirely. It looks _suspiciously_ similar to what the women are wearing…” He was sporting a pair of blouse-y, knee-length pants that very accurately matched his eyes. And a tunic of the same color with flowy sleeves, though there was a glaring issue with its design. He tugged at its hem, which barely reached his midriff. “Look at this. Is it meant to be so short? It’s comfortable, sure, but not exactly…” he finally looked up, “Geralt?”  
  
The other man was glaring pointedly at a spot on the wall over his shoulder and oh, yes, Jaskier would recognize that slightly embarrassed expression anywhere. With untold amounts of confidence and a sly grin, he sauntered over.  
  
“What? Does it not suit me?”  
  
“It, uh…”  
  
“Hmm?”  
  
“It’s different.”  
  
“Different how? Yes or no?”  
  
Geralt finally looked at him, one hand sliding the lock closed with a _click_ while the other found purchase on his bare waist. Gold eyes flicked down, gesturing to the scant space between their hips. “You tell me.”  
  
“O-oh. Yes, that – that is certainly an…answer.” Heat crept into Jaskier’s face. “I'll take it as a, uh, very big yes. So I shouldn't change, then?”  
  
"No." The fingers on his waist tightened. “Keep it on.”  
  
Jaskier’s voice came out oddly shaky after that. Though they were a couple, had been together more times than he could count, this felt strange. Likely because ever since Vrart shattered the small amount of peace they'd found that night, Geralt had been carefully keeping him at arm’s length. Both physically and emotionally.  
  
“R- _right_. Keep it on. Got it.” He swallowed hard, cringing when it made an audible sound. Geralt was staring intently, hungrily, at his Adam’s apple as it bobbed up and down. “Because you like it - ”  
  
"Very much."  
  
With that, the Witcher kissed him, slowly, letting himself savor every single one of Jaskier’s attempts to get through his lips with his tongue before eventually opening up.  
  
Minutes later, they were up against a wall with one of Geralt’s arms curled around Jaskier’s upper thigh, supporting his bad leg. When he gently lowered it back down and got to his knees, flicking open the white button of the other’s pants, however, Jaskier suddenly placed two hands upon his shoulders.  
  
“Geralt, on second thoughts, we should… _shouldn’t_. Risk it, I mean. Narra said things are getting worse, and as pleasant as that last switch was I _really_ don't want - ”  
  
Geralt quieted him by straightening up and laying a small kiss on the corner of his mouth. “I know. I just…”  
  
“I know.” The bard parroted, breathless. “It’s the outfit, isn't it? Making me far too irresistible.”  
  
“No, more than that. It's…” Geralt kissed him again and drew back, leaving a cold emptiness in his wake. His eyes suddenly lost all their heat as well, because while Jaskier had slept on his shoulder, he had done some deep reflecting. He decided now was as good a time as any to share it. “Do you understand how important you are to me?”  
  
Jaskier’s face broke out into a giddy smile, not quite catching onto the abrupt shift in mood. "Monumentally?”  
  
“More.”  
  
“You know I feel the same. And I was only joking about the clothes.” He tilted his head to the side. “Why are you telling me this?”  
  
A long, deep breath. “I’ve been…thinking.”  
  
“Look out, world.”  
  
“I’m serious.”  
  
“All right, all right. I’m sorry. What have you been thinking about, dearest Witcher mine?”  
  
“Us. The demon. The curse. However it ends, I need you to know…damn it.” Geralt frowned, trying to find the right words. It was surprisingly difficult. “I told you before how unlikely it is that we’ll get a happy ending. It sounds cruel, but the worse our situation gets, I…”  
  
“I don’t like where this is going.”  
  
“You're not just important to me, Jaskier. Soulmates aside, you...I think you might be my greatest love." He shook his head. "I know it. And no matter what happens, if I don’t - ”  
  
“Please don’t say - ”  
  
“ - _if_ I don’t make it, know I will be meeting my end happily. Because of our time together. It’s not the fairytale you wanted, but it’s all I can offer.”  
  
There was a lull in the conversation as Jaskier processed the words, which prompted Geralt to continue. It was as if a dam had broken.  
  
“Part of me died that night. When I almost...” He stole a glance at Jaskier’s leg. “I’m telling you all this because there’s no way to know if and when it will happen again. Or whether I'll be able to..." A flustered pause. "I need - ”  
  
“If it happens again, we’ll find a way to fix it. Casper’s research, I’m sure it will help - ”  
  
“ _Jaskier_.” Geralt’s tone was harsher than he meant it to be, which he quickly remedied. “You’re not listening. I need you to know what you mean to me and what I can give you. And then I need you to tell me whether it will be enough. I don't..." the words seemed hard for him, "I don't want to trap you into something you didn't ask for.”  
  
Jaskier searched the other’s eyes for a long moment before firmly shaking his head. The silent offer for him to choose a different, perhaps happier life and leave Geralt then and there hung heavily in the air between them.  
  
“Dying young, however happily, still makes you dead young. And it's not enough for me. Shouldn't be for you, either. But I'm not going anywhere. Look, we live in a world where magic exists and dragons are real. And I swear I saw a fairy once - "  
  
"I told you that was a firefl - "  
  
Jaskier placed a finger to his lips, much to his irritation. "Ah, ah. My turn. Anyway, fairies. Totally saw one. Ergo, fairy _tale_. And I will do whatever it takes for us to prance off into the sunset at the end of it, where we die of natural causes, or old age. Either way, something far less tragic.” He then cupped the other's cheek, stubble tickling his fingers, and smiled. "You can leave it up to me, for once, or we can agree to disagree. The choice is yours."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Jaskier paused, the tip of his quill hovering over the page. How on earth was he supposed to write _that_ emotional, frightening, loaded conversation? Geralt had gone to help the others shortly after, leaving the bard to marinate alone in the feeling of dread that was now curling like a snake in the pit of his stomach.  
  
He sighed, crossed out the sentence he had just written, and closed the notebook. When he ventured back outside to check on their progress, he bumped into Annika, who took one look at him and immediately burst into laughter.  
  
As they left the village, they passed by a church. The colors and emblems Yen did not recognize, though they intrigued her nonetheless.  
  
She slowed the caravan to a halt before it, enamored by the statue standing in front of its white-and-gold double doors. Casper – who had been sitting at her side on the front bench, idly looking out at the horizon – followed her gaze curiously. When she asked after which religion it was meant to represent, he informed her it was simply called the 'Church of Wehemessu' and was an integral part of the village's way of life.  
  
The statue, which was also crafted from white marble and gold, was of a man whose robes were carved so expertly it seemed as though they were actively rippling in the breeze. He had a pointed face and was holding a book open on the palm of his outstretched hand. There was a serpent clutched tightly in the other.  
  
“Do you have any books on the subject?” Yen marveled at the stone colossus before them. “It’s so exquisitely crafted. I’d love to learn more about which deity it’s depicting.”  
  
“Actually, their religion strictly forbids any written texts. It’s all done by word of mouth. Fascinating, really.”  
  
She pulled a face. “Then why is he holding a book?”  
  
“Maybe it's symbolic. We can come back here another day when things have calmed down and take a closer look, if you’d like. The priests are always more than happy to answer questions.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
“Why _is_ it so hot?” Ciri’s large eyes peered curiously out the window. They were plodding along the narrow top of a gargantuan sand dune. “Isn’t everything supposed to be all topsy-turvy still? D’you think the demon did something to fix it?”  
  
Jaskier shrugged from where he was lounging on the opposite bench. “I honestly couldn’t tell you. Can’t imagine he - _ah_.”  
  
A twinge in his leg had him sitting up suddenly and hunching over. The herbs and analgesics, though wonderful at stopping the pain, left him unbearably groggy and so he had decided to only take them when absolutely necessary.  
  
“Jaskier? Are you all right?” She watched his trembling fingers hover cautiously over the cast. “I can whip something up for you, if you’d like.”  
  
He shook his head, straightening with a loud groan. “No, no. I’d rather not. The last few days are starting to take their toll, that’s all. Keeping up with you rascals is _exhausting_.”  
  
“Says the chief rascal.”  
  
“Cheeky.” He smiled fondly at her before gathering his crutches, quill and notebook and making to stand. “I’m going to pop out and get some air. It’s stifling in here. Care to join?”  
  
“No, that’s all right.” She crinkled her nose at the way he winced with every movement. “You really shouldn’t be walking on it as much as you are.”  
  
“Thank you for worrying about me so _adorably_.” He limped to the front of the caravan, tossing a wink at her over his shoulder as he lifted the curtain. “But you should know by now that a mere broken bone can’t stop the king of rascals.”  
  
She scoffed. “I said _chief_.”  
  
He only grinned and dropped the curtain, joining Geralt out on the front bench. They hadn't spoken since their talk, and he was determined to break the tension somehow.  
  
“Geralt Roger Eric,” Jaskier’s tongue poked out of the corner of his mouth as he furiously scribbled in the book, “due Haute-Bellegarde of Rivia.”  
  
From inside, Geralt could hear Ciri whisper “ _Roger_?” under her breath. He took his eyes off the road to scowl at the bard. “What are you doing?”  
  
Rather than answer, Jaskier simply showed him what he was working on.  
  
“What…” He cringed at the page's contents, which read pretty much as follows: ‘The life and times of **Geralt Roger Eric** 🎀 𝒹𝓊𝑒 𝐻𝒶𝓊𝓉𝑒-𝐵𝑒𝓁𝓁𝑒𝑔𝒶𝓇𝒹𝑒 🎀 of Rivia, 1168 - present.’ “Jaskier, what the fuck am I looking at?”  
  
“Book cover. It's a work in progress, and of course I’ll have an actual _artiste_ do the real thing when the time comes.”  
  
“Why is only my surname in cursive?” He squinted at the two little embellishments on either side. “Are those bows?”  
  
“I think they add a little something. And it's because your surname is _adorable_. It deserves to be in cursive.” He bounced a little in his seat. “Do you like it? Should I add sparkles, too?”  
  
Geralt’s brow twitched.  
  
“Have I left you speechless?”  
  
“I hate it.”  
  
“ _Why_? Is it the bows? I thought the whole thing captured your essence so _accurately_ \- ”  
  
Just then, a huge ball of sand crashed into the side of their caravan. It was slightly wet and had been formed into a boulder-sized clump but broke apart upon impact, its spray reaching both men and covering them in the stuff.  
  
"Ah!" Jaskier spluttered around a mouthful of it. "Ew - _ew_! It's all in my mouth, what..." He spat some out in his hand, gagging. "Sand? Why is it _wet_?"  
  
The Witcher glanced up at Yen's caravan ahead, which didn't look to be in any sort of distress, before surveying the sand on either side of their own. Seeing nothing from that vantage point, he handed the reins off to Jaskier and stood.  
  
His eyes fell upon the stretch of sand behind them just as another ball was hurled their way. This one missed, and he squinted, noticing the way the sand rippled as something tunneled beneath it.  
  
"Fuck."  
  
"Gods. What is it now? Another ambush?"  
  
He sat back down, retaking the reins and spurring their horse into a faster gallop. "Sand monster."  
  
"Suh - ? Sorry, did you say _sand monster_?"  
  
Ciri poked her head out of the curtain, eyes wide. "Did you see it, Geralt? It's _huge_!"  
  
He cursed as the dune quaked and shivered. Though only able to move in the sand, the beasts were wickedly fast in their own element. It would be upon them shortly. "Might have to jump ship. Ciri, find something long and flat. Jaskier, get inside."  
  
"Jump? Down there..? No, nono. _Why_?"  
  
"No time to explain - "  
  
"But - "  
  
Another projectile hit the back of the caravan, sand flying in every direction. "Just get inside!"  
  
Jaskier tossed him a petulant little frown but did as he was told. As soon as he'd disappeared behind the curtain, the sand beneath them opened up to reveal a gaping maw. No doubt about it, the caravan was lost. They would most certainly have to jump. If they slid down the dune, they would be able to put enough space between them and the monster, buy some time to find safer terrain.  
  
Their horse whinnied frantically and Geralt quickly released the reins, allowing it to gallop ahead unhindered as the back wheels started slowly sinking into the monster’s mouth.  
  
He ran back to where Ciri was frantically tugging at the seat of a bench, attempting to remove it. Jaskier was gathering up all his valuables, clinging to the wall as the caravan’s front wheels lifted off the ground. The back door had fallen open, giving them a clear view of a seemingly bottomless black hole surrounded by rows and rows of long, curved, needle-sharp teeth. It roared, but it was more of a scream, spit and sand flying everywhere.  
  
Geralt gently nudged Ciri aside and grabbed the bench, ripping the seat off and doing the same to the second. “We'll slide down the dune on these. Get somewhere it can't reach us." He passed one off to the girl. "You’ll move faster alone. Jaskier and I will take the other.”  
  
The caravan groaned in protest, the sound of teeth breaking through its back wooden walls drowning out his voice. If they hung around any longer they would surely be devoured along with it.  
  
“Why can’t we ever have a normal family outing?” Jaskier cried above the din, face screwed up in pain. “Just one, one trip that doesn’t end in disaster, that’s all I ask - ”  
  
Geralt grabbed the back of his collar and towed him towards the little porch at the front of the caravan, helping him climb up. The fact that it was currently half-hovering in midair actually worked in their favor. As the whole structure creaked and started snapping in half, a tongue poking its way up through a hole in the floor, Geralt ushered Ciri out first.  
  
There was less than a foot of space between the opening and the sand, though a single misstep meant falling directly into the beast’s mouth. Brave as she was, she didn’t think twice before leaping off and over the edge of the dune, holding the makeshift sled close to the front of her body.  
  
Her landing was smooth and she immediately started sailing down the face of it at breakneck speeds.  
  
Jaskier did think twice, however. His eyes bulged as he took in the sheer height of the sandy cliff.  
  
“You know, th-think I’d rather take my chances with the sand monster. Maybe it’s not so bad in there - ”  
  
“It is.” Geralt caught him as he spun on his good heel, trying to back out, and spun him right back round, keeping his hands firmly on narrow shoulders. “Once it swallows you it will start slowly sucking you dry.”  
  
“When you say that, I’m _assuming_ you don’t mean - ”  
  
A snort. “I mean it will siphon all the moisture from your body, ounce by ounce, and shit out your shriveled corpse.”  
  
“Right, but…” he whimpered as the tongue lashed towards them, though it wasn’t long enough to reach them up there, “just weighing my options here. So we’re clear, lots of sucking, but _not_ in the fun way?”  
  
“Not in the fun way.” Geralt affirmed, glancing over his shoulder. The caravan was nearly split in two now. He wasn’t keen on alarming the bard further by rushing him, but they didn’t have long. “You’ll be fine, Jaskier. Just be sure to hold on. Ready?”  
  
Jaskier replied with a shaky nod and another whimper. Satisfied, Geralt leapt over the edge, slipping the seat under his feet as he did. He quickly dug his leg into the sand to keep himself from sliding over and held a hand out for the other to take.  
  
Jaskier did, reluctantly, cursing as he hopped aross the small gap and into the other’s arms. Geralt caught him and easily supported his weight, making sure to keep it off the broken limb.  
  
The beast, busy excavating their transport with its tongue, did not pay any mind as they sat upon the bench and took off over the edge after Ciri. Jaskier was at the back, screaming in absolute terror and holding onto its edges for dear life as they picked up speed. He chanced a glance over his shoulder and found their entire caravan had been consumed. After that, it started speeding after Yen's and the loose horse, sand flying out on either side of it in massive waves.  
  
They easily caught up to the girl, who grinned and whooped in excitement as the wind whipped across her face. She had originally been laying on her stomach but sat up on the board, marveling at the view of the desert provided by their altitude. Over the sound of the monster’s irritated roars, she called to them.  
  
“Race you to the bottom?”  
  
Geralt shook his head, but when he saw her face fall wordlessly started using his hands to urge their sled to move even faster, quickly surpassing hers. She laughed and tried her best to keep up.  
  
Jaskier, having turned an impressive shade of chartreuse, buried his face between the Witcher’s shoulder blades. A constant chorus of “do not throw up on Geralt, do not throw up on Geralt, _do not throw up on Geralt_ ” was spilling forth unbidden through his tightly clenched teeth.  
  
Their race would have continued without a hitch, if only the flat rock jutting out of the dune about halfway down didn’t send them flying just as Jaskier’s hands, perilously sweaty from fear, slipped. They remained airborne for a moment and he scrambled to find purchase on their sled.  
  
Alas, his hands and the glazed wood were both far too slippery, and the impact of their landing had him immediately bouncing right off.  
  
“Ger - ”  
  
Soaring through the air had him choking on the word, eyes wide in horror as the sandy cliffside raced up to meet him once more. His leg. Fuck, his leg. This was going to hurt. This was going to hurt _bad_ -  
  
“Jaskier!”  
  
Without thinking, Geralt abandoned the board and lunged after the bard, managing by some stroke of luck – or just impeccable reflexes and core strength – to catch him before he could make contact with the ground. He wrapped one arm tightly about the other’s waist, pulling him close. Also without thinking, he thrust his free hand out beneath them and instinctively cast a barrier sign.  
  
Ciri’s exhilaration had vanished immediately and she shouted both of their names, looking on in awe as – to everyone’s surprise – a crackling amber bubble sprang up around them. She was several yards behind now, but let out a breath of relief when rather than crash heavily, they bounced gently and rolled the rest of the way down.  
  
The protective spell remained until they reached the very bottom. It spluttered and popped as Geralt released Jaskier’s waist. While encased within it, it had felt like they were traveling upon the fluffiest of clouds.  
  
Jaskier rolled onto his back, holding his lute protectively to his heaving chest and staring up at the cloudless blue sky. Geralt did the same at his left, face a mask of irritation.  
  
“What part of ‘hold on’ did you not understand?”  
  
“All of it, I guess. But Geralt?”  
  
The Witcher tilted his head to the side just enough to spit out a mouthful of sand. “ _What_?”  
  
“I'd like to take a moment to appreciate how much better it is when you do it.” He stuck his lower lip out in a pout. “Destiny is far too rough. No preparation at all.”  
  
"When I do what?" Geralt side-eyed the bard, checking him over. "Did you hit your head?”  
  
“No, no. _Destiny_ , Geralt. I'm wondering if she ever tires of fucking us so royally up the – oh, hello, Ciri. You didn’t hear that, did you?”  
  
The young girl slid to a stop beside them, eyes like saucers. She looked like she’d just come out of a wind tunnel, knotted platinum locks making wild shapes around her small face.  
  
“Hear what? My ears are ringing. That ride was…something. Is it mad that I kind of want to go again?” She blew a stray strand out of her eyes, glancing down at the men who were still plastered to the ground like a couple of beached starfish. “Are you two all right?”  
  
“Peachy.” Jaskier propped himself up on his elbows, injured leg splayed out awkwardly but miraculously no worse for wear. To his dismay, however, the flimsy material of his pretty new blouse was already ripped. “Why does this sort of thing only happen when I’m wearing nice clothes?”  
  
Ciri turned to the Witcher, who had also gotten up and was currently trying to evacuate the sand from his boots. “How on earth did you manage to properly cast that barrier?”  
  
He glanced down at his hand. “I don’t know.”  
  
“The weather here, too...does this mean chaos is back to normal?”  
  
He stood, nodding to a lone cactus standing a few paces away. "Only one way to find out. Stand back, in case it backfires."  
  
Jaskier and Ciri both shuffled a healthy distance away, looking on as he raised his hand and cast aard. Immediately, blue light burst from the palm of his hand, curving in an arc towards the cactus and cutting it right down the middle.  
  
Ciri cheered, jumping up and down in excitement. "It worked! Magic is back!"  
  
Geralt smirked, lowering his hand. "Seems that way." Hopefully Yen and the others had figured it out, too. "Better keep moving, before the beast comes back for us. We're about six or seven miles from the - "  
  
There was a distant rumbling beneath their feet that had the Witcher’s ears perking, then. He whirled around but it happened so fast that the remnants of their relieved smiles were still on their faces as the sand beneath Ciri’s feet erupted.  
  
He shouted the girl’s name, drawing his blade and darting forward swifter than Jaskier thought he’d ever seen him move. A large tongue had curled around her ankle, lifting her up in the air.  
  
Geralt stomped carelessly upon the beast’s mottled, purple lips, using them as a sturdy point from which he leapt, sailing over the gaping hole, slicing its tongue off with one clean stroke, and reaching for her outstretched hand.  
  
He missed by a hair. Less than, even, for it had released her ankle seconds before he’d made the cut. She plummeted into its bottomless gullet with an aborted, petrified scream and his boots landed heavily upon the sand on the other side as the beast’s throat convulsed and swallowed her whole with a sick _squelch_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jargon:  
>  **sand monster** \- it doesn't have a real name in the books it's just called sand monster, it has an antlion-like body and one almost eats ciri's unicorn friend. they also spit gross phlegmy balls of sand. it's not vrart dw lol :p  
>  **Wehemessu** \- not a Witcher thing but it means rebirth or renaissance in Egyptian  
>  **statue** \- not a Witcher thing either, but also not the irish guy who hated snakes, just a figment of my imagination


	85. Chapter 85

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I’m guesstimating that we’ll end on chapter 100, which would be so nice and satisfying, but y’all already know I’m a mess so idk…we’ll see…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Geralt faces what pretty much turned out to be the Alaskan bull worm from Spongebob. Have fun getting that mental image out of your head, it's been keeping me up at night.

“Ciri! _Damn_ it.” Geralt adjusted his grip on the sword, staring down into the beast’s maw as it shook around a scream, large globs of phlegm bursting from its lips. “I’m going in after her."  
  
Still shell-shocked and lacking the other's speedy reaction time, it took Jaskier a moment to find his bearings. His ears were ringing, drowning out all other sound, and he was unable to tear his eyes away from where the girl had been standing mere moments ago.  
  
He finally managed it just as the Witcher reared back, preparing to dive in and kill it from the inside. “W-wait, Geralt, are you _quite_ sure this is a good - ”  
  
Good plan or not, before Geralt could enact it, as if sensing his intentions, the monster suddenly screeched and started tunneling out of the ground. He cursed and quickly plunged his weapon into the hard shell around its throat, ignoring Jaskier’s alarmed shouts as it rose to its full height and took the Witcher with it, casting a humongous shadow upon the sand.  
  
It was spitting untold amounts of the stuff into the air in every direction - large, wave-like sprays that rocketed towards Jaskier. He limped back as quickly as he could, but tripped over himself in the process. His head smacked painfully against something hard when he landed and he groaned at the funny little stars that peppered his vision as a result.  
  
When they cleared, horrified blue eyes slowly trailed up the form thrashing violently before him. It was so big that it obscured the sun almost entirely from view, easily the size of a large house. And at the top dangled the Witcher, above a very steep drop.  
  
Geralt cursed again, hand nearly slipping. He’d seen a few iterations of similar creatures during his travels - usually they had claws and mandibles but this one was worm-like, its body a bulbous tube, claw-less, eye-less.  
  
He kept a firm grip on the pommel of his blade as the thing writhed and shrieked and spat, attempting to throw him off. When he tried using his weight to jerk the blade and drag it down, he found it wouldn’t budge. The creature had made a mistake leaving the safety of the sand. If he could just cut through the rest of that shell, which protected the upper portion of its gullet, he would reach the softer skin below and hopefully rip through it like paper.  
  
He secured his feet on either side of the blade and grasped it with both hands, using that leverage to yank as hard as he could. The thing screamed and twirled erratically, the desert swirling around him dizzyingly fast.  
  
Stay focused. Rip it open, get Ciri out. Before…  
  
That thought renewed his strength and he gritted his teeth, putting all of it behind his next attempt. With a crack, the shell split open around his blade, and his whole body jerked with it. The monster let out a guttural scream but he forcefully continued his brutal descent of its length, tearing through purplish flesh and the weaker endoskeleton that lined its stomach, guts and other debris bursting out as he went and raining down on his head and shoulders. He chanced a glance down at Jaskier.  
  
It was going to fall. _Hard_. Hopefully in the other direction, but…  
  
The bard was propped up on his elbows on the ground, frozen in terror, gaping at Geralt like a fish out of water.  
  
“Jaskier!” It was unlikely his shouts were heard over the chaos. “You idiot - _run_!”  
  
Jaskier didn’t move and the creature swayed. As Geralt neared the bottom he used his feet again to kick himself and his blade free and leap off. He then sprinted to the bard, ignoring his spluttering protests and slinging him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes before booking it as the shadow at his feet grew.  
  
They managed to escape, just barely. The whole desert seemed to quake as the beast crashed down upon it, twitching a few times before going still. Leagues and leagues of its insides spilled out onto the sand, along with the half-rotted remains of the caravan, evidence of previous meals, a few petrified corpses.  
  
“Blow me backwards.” Jaskier groaned again, craning his neck to look at the disgusting sight over Geralt’s shoulder. “That was certainly…something. Not sure what, though. I guess it was sort of heroic, in a very, very gross w - ” he interrupted himself and started squirming urgently, lofty tone evolving into a panicked shout when he remembered they were missing a member, “Nono, where is she?! I can't see - Ciri? - _Ciri_!”  
  
Geralt set him down, hurrying towards the monster’s split-open body. He was covered in its foul ichor and didn’t think twice before he started hurling the contents of its stomach around with his bare hands, looking for the young girl.  
  
She was nowhere to be found.  
  
“No.” His voice raised with each word as he tore through guts and gore. Even if the worst had happened, her body should still... “She should be here, Jaskier. She wasn't in there long enough to...how – the _fuck_ \- is she – not _here_!”  
  
He punctuated the words with increasingly violent actions and Jaskier reached out, making to step towards him but finding his legs far too wobbly. He fell heavily, hardly registering the pain in his head, to his hands and knees in the sand.  
  
“Geralt. Geralt, I…” He didn’t want to say it. Couldn’t bear to consider that maybe, just maybe... “Is it possible…”  
  
“No!” He roared, eyes wild as he wreaked havoc on the monster’s corpse, his search turning desperate. A lock of blonde hair was coiled around a razor-sharp, bloodied tooth and he shattered it with his boot, seething. “Where? _Where_ \- ”  
  
It went on like this for quite some time, with Jaskier occasionally interrupting his rampage with faint, half-hearted attempts at getting him to stop. Eventually, when the thing’s remains were barely recognizable, Geralt fell to his knees in the mess he’d made and bowed his head. He was holding something and when Jaskier realized what it was his hand flew to cover his mouth, nausea rising in the back of his throat.  
  
Ciri’s blade, coated thickly in saliva and mucous. It had snapped in half.  
  
They both lapsed into solemn silence, broken only by Geralt’s heaving breaths as he stared at the broken weapon in his hands.  
  
There was a faint, magical _pop_ that Jaskier paid no mind to, only able to gaze blankly at his fingers digging into the sand. Tears slowly started to blur his vision. So fast. It had happened so fast. One minute she was there, smiling, and the next…  
  
“...Geralt? Jaskier?”  
  
Both men’s heads shot up at the exact same moment to find Ciri standing before them, her hair, face and clothes covered in the same goo. She was white as a sheet, eyes impossibly large. From the knees down, her trousers were stained with blood that wasn't her own.  
  
Geralt was on his feet and at her side in an instant, boots squelching in the gore. Without a word he wrapped his arms around her trembling shoulders and pulled her in, burying his nose in the top of her head and inhaling deeply before releasing a shaky breath.  
  
“Are you hurt?”  
  
“No. I…I went somewhere dark.” Her voice was muffled by his tunic. “It was so scary. I thought I was going to be stuck there forever.”  
  
Jaskier let out a relieved laugh and scrubbed away the tears tracking his cheeks with the back of a flowy sleeve, voice cracking when he spoke. He had stood as well, a hand on her shoulder to reassure himself that she was really there and not some cruel desert mirage. “Yes, I imagine the inside of a sand monster to be quite an unpleas - ”  
  
“ _No_.” She pulled back, shaking her head insistently. “Not inside the monster. I was somewhere _else_. Some ruins. The sky…the moon, it was all wrong. Broken. And the shadows…they moved. They tried speaking to me. I didn’t answer. Somehow I knew I shouldn’t - ”  
  
Geralt’s brow furrowed. “Ciri, slow down - ”  
  
“And – and the floor! It was covered in blood. Up to my knees, at least. It wasn’t the inside of the monster, Geralt. It was somewhere _else_. You have to believe me, I…I…”  
  
Both men exchanged concerned frowns. The Witcher cupped the back of her head with his hand and drew her back in. She was shaking like a leaf.  
  
“I do. But you’re here now.” He stroked her matted hair, a tight feeling in his chest. “We’ll tell Yen. Figure out what happened, where you went.”  
  
As if on cue, a small crow that had been circling overhead released a sharp cry, demanding to be noticed. Geralt squinted up at it.  
  
“The fuck?”  
  
It swooped down towards them, landing on Jaskier’s shoulder. He yelped and tried batting it away but it was insistent, stubbornly digging its toes in and nudging him with its beak. Geralt’s amulet shuddered.  
  
“Speak of the devil.” He released Ciri but kept a steadying hand on her back. “Seems her powers are back. What are you trying to tell us?”  
  
It cawed again, using a wing to gesture southwards. Still just a bird, it also continued jabbing its tiny beak at Jaskier.  
  
"Oi!" He hopped around on one foot, a hand flying up to protect his ear. "Stop _pecking_ me, you little - _ow_!"  
  
Geralt nodded when it decided to stop pestering the bard and flew back up, jerking its head south again.  
  
"It's going to guide us to the dig site." He sighed, sheathing his blade. "South it is. Lead the way."  
  
The bird spread its wings and took off, though it waited patiently a few paces ahead as Geralt turned to Jaskier, ripping a bit of cloth from his tunic - the only bit left unsullied after his impromptu monster-guts bath - and handed it to him. Jaskier wrinkled his nose.  
  
"Um...no thanks?"  
  
"The back of your head. It's bleeding." He shoved it into the other's hands. "Use this. I'll treat it properly once we reach the others."  
  
Jaskier gingerly accepted, wincing when he pressed it to the wound. He hadn't noticed in all the excitement, forgot he'd even hit his head.  
  
With that, Geralt then turned his back and got down on his knees, gesturing impatiently when the bard yet again gave pause.  
  
"Get on."  
  
"On your - ?" Two spots of pink appeared on his cheeks as he stammered. "Really, can't I just use a - a walking stick, or - "  
  
"Faster this way. Hurry up. It would be best if we got there before sunset." A pause. "If you think the desert is unfriendly now, just wait until you see what comes out at night."  
  
That was all the convincing Jaskier needed and he wrapped his free arm around Geralt's neck - it was a rocky lift-off that required some clever posturing, but once he was up there he felt immediate relief. No small amount of guilt, though.  
  
"Don't get me wrong, _Adore_ being toted around on your glorious back, but...I can't help feeling like a burden." He rested his chin on Geralt's shoulder, squinting at the horizon. "Think someone will be able to mend this bloody bone of mine once and for all? Seeing how magic's apparently back."  
  
Geralt nodded, hooking his forearms under the other's knees to keep him securely in place without jostling his leg. Seven miles was nothing, but the added weight of Jaskier was sure to hinder their progress if he wasn't careful.  
  
"Yen should be able to do something about it. We'll take breaks when necessary. Be sure to drink plenty of water, both of you."  
  
Before they started moving, Geralt turned to Ciri. She seemed to be slowly recovering from the traumatic experience, though she still looked peaky. When he spoke, his tone was somewhat awkward.  
  
"I'm...glad your safe. If you had..." He shook his head. "I never would've..."  
  
She quieted his stilted attempts with a smile. "I know, Geralt. I'm sorry I scared you."  
  
Jaskier nodded emphatically. "Both of us. _Terribly_. But we'll forgive you if you promise not to do it ever, ever, ever, _ever_ \- "  
  
Geralt groaned, as the bard was speaking directly in his ear. "She gets the point, Jaskier."  
  
" - ever again."  
  
That was met with a small, chiming laugh, and the remaining fear dissolved from her face. "Don't think that's a promise I can make, but I'll try my best."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
They moved slowly but steadily. At some point, Geralt put Jaskier down long enough to remove his top and tie it about his waist, leaving on his spaulders and the harness for his blade, which Ciri was carrying to make the ride a little more comfortable for the bard.  
  
It was unbearably hot, the sun beating down on their backs. There were no clouds in the sky to provide even temporary relief, either. Only the occasional stretch of shade from the massive dunes that rose up around them.  
  
The little crow plodded diligently along ahead. The worst of the journey was when they had to climb up one of those very dunes, but when they reached its top they found the bleak, monotonous horizon was finally broken and the crow squawked once before turning to glass and crashing to the ground. In the distance, a massive structure - a fortress, miles high.  
  
On one side of its gates lay the excavation sight, a huge crater in the earth through which several loosely-robed figures milled about, tinkering away at stone and sediment. On the other sat a far more beautiful sight - a thick congregation of tall palm trees and lush green ferns that encircled a large lake with sparkling, almost turquoise waters.  
  
Jaskier blinked multiple times, rubbing his eyes in disbelief. "Um. Are you all seeing this, or do I actually have a concussion?"  
  
Ciri bounced excitedly. "An oasis! Casper's told me all about them. It's _stunning_! Can we go for a swim? I'd really love to wash this awful stuff off."  
  
"Soon." Geralt smirked at her childlike enthusiasm. She often postured and behaved as maturely as the adults she traveled with, but occasionally her real age broke through. "Let's find the others first."  
  
It turned out they didn't have to look very far. As they came upon its closed front gates they spotted Annika leaning against the wall beside them, looking bored. When she spied them she rolled her eyes and kicked off it, meeting them in the middle.  
  
"About time you showed up. Nice to see you're still alive, or whatever...magic's back, by the way."  
  
Geralt grunted. "We know."  
  
She surveyed the exhausted trio, each one dirtier and slimier than the last. Her eyes lit up and she reached into her pocket, pulling out an empty vial. "Is that from the monster? Can I have some?"  
  
He rolled his eyes when she abruptly lifted a startled Ciri's arm by its sleeve, examining the goo and muttering to herself as she searched for the perfect specimen. "Where's Yen?"  
  
"Oh. Slight problem." She paused, tone oozing with irritation. "Some of those robed dicks want to deny us entry. Say we're a danger. Yen and Casper are having a chat with...er, the head robed dick now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt, hands on hips: cirilla fiona, get back in this dimension right this instant
> 
> i hope it's not too OOC that he would leave jaskier to go after ciri


	86. Chapter 86

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chapter! Whee! It’s really just…a gross amount of camaraderie lmfao. Some swimming, some rooftop shenanigans. 😊 plot, too. It's just. It's secret plot. Shhhh. I'll spend more time describing the place next chapter, I had to fit a lot in here heh.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning for some Witcher-centric bigotry towards Geralt and Jaskier's relationship about halfway through.

With nothing to do but stand around, their small group decided to head to the oasis to clean up and cool off while Yen and Casper deliberated within the fortress’s impossibly high walls.  
  
Aedd Gynvael was, as previously mentioned, an absolute monster of a castle. Crafted entirely from beige-colored stone and made up of mostly square shapes and structures. They couldn’t see much from the outside, but through the iron gates caught glimpses of an elaborate entrance with two magnificent spires.  
  
From those gates, the journey to the oasis was quick. It was even more beautiful up close – the sun hadn’t set yet but was nearly there, casting a pleasant, pre-dusk glow upon its waters. The palm trees afforded an ample amount of shade that gave them relief from the stifling heat.  
  
Ciri and Geralt went straight into the lake. She went in fully clothed, eager to wash off all traces of the monster, while the Witcher removed his armor to scrub it separately. Leaving on his trousers, obviously.  
  
Due to their injuries, Annika and Jaskier idly lounged on the sidelines at the water’s edge. After about half an hour, the witch dipped her uninjured hand into the water and splashed the bard, who looked miles away as he watched Geralt run his hands through his long hair to remove the worst of the gunk.  
  
“Hey!” He spluttered, drying his face with his sleeve and fixing her with a frown. “What was that for?”  
  
“How are you holding up?”  
  
“How am I - ? You mean aside from the curse? Aside from getting chased by a demon, a sand monster, and now apparently a _cu_ \- ”  
  
She silenced him with another splash, much to his irritation. “No. I wasn’t asking for a laundry list of current events. I meant _you_. Your…whatever you call its. The things you’re always trying to get everyone to talk about.”  
  
After a moment of deliberation, Jaskier squinted at her and cautiously ventured, “you couldn’t possibly mean _feelings_ , could you?”  
  
“Ah, yes. Feelings. How are your feelings?”  
  
“Dear gods.” He pulled a face, pinching the bridge of his nose with two fingers. “I’m thoroughly convinced that all of us put together still wouldn’t form one stable adult.”  
  
“Shut up and answer the question.”  
  
“Well, which is it? Shut up or answer?” When she splashed him a third time, he raised his hands in mock surrender. “Fine. You really want to know? My injuries have injuries. My headaches have headaches. And I’m worried. About everything. Scared _all_ the time. But I think the constant threat of an agonizing death will do that to just about anyone. And…well, I guess that pretty much sums it up.”  
  
“I see.”  
  
When she went quiet again, gazing contemplatively out at the lake while the little lizard climbed from her shoulder to the top of her head, Jaskier balked. “That’s it? You really had nothing planned past ‘how are your feelings?’”  
  
“Well I won’t lie to your face and tell you everything’s going to be okay, if that’s what you want. I’m not a fucking soothsayer. And if you ended up dying straight after I’d feel like a complete arse - ”  
  
“Thanks _so_ much. This was really, really special.”  
  
“ - but I _was_ in your head. For _ages_. The incessant inner-monologuing, awful singing…you know you banter, with yourself? It’s madness.” She shook her head. “Anyway, unfortunately I do know how it works up there, and I’m loathe to admit I can tell when you’re upset. Thought you might like to know you can - _ugh_ \- you can talk to me, if you wish. I am…here. To _listen_. Nothing more.”  
  
Jaskier found his irritation dissolving, his lips curving into a surprised smile. Somehow that was more of a comfort than any false reassurance or half-assed attempt at cheering him up. “Thank you, Annika. Same to you.” The smile turned cheeky. “Do you need to lie down? I won’t judge. I know that must have been very, very taxing for you.”  
  
“Keep going and I’ll throw you in, bum leg and all. Let Geralt fish you out and hang you up to dry right beside his knickers.”  
  
“That doesn’t sound half bad. I do so love his knickers.”  
  
She groaned, giving him a harsh tap on the skull with one finger. “In there, remember? Saw it _all_. Like the time you stole his - ”  
  
Jaskier loudly cleared his throat to cut her off as the Witcher waded over to them. “Geralt! Er - all cleaned up?”  
  
He eyed them both suspiciously. “What are you talking about?”  
  
“Nothing, nothing at - ”  
  
“I think he deserves the truth.” Annika cut in, looking far too amused. “We were just discussing the time before you two were an item, when he pilfered one of your undershirts and told you it had been ruined by _selkiemore guts_.”  
  
Jaskier went red in the face and spluttered incoherently, but Geralt looked completely unfazed. “What about it? I knew he was lying. Almost immediately.” Gold eyes found blue ones. “I've told you before. You are a bad liar.”  
  
That was simply too much for Jaskier. “You _knew_? Why didn’t you _say_ anything?”  
  
The Witcher sploshed over to the edge and pulled himself up to sit beside the mortified bard, water cascading off his broad shoulders and from his soaked silver mane. Ciri continued floating lazily about, not quite ready to leave the water’s cool embrace and definitely not in the mood to deal with whatever was going down at the other end.  
  
“Hm.” Geralt thought on it. “Out of pity?”  
  
Annika was cackling now. “Oh, this is _good_.”  
  
Jaskier buried his face in his hands. “’Pity?’”  
  
A noncommittal shrug. “Honestly thought you were a derelict and needed it to wear. Or sell. Something along those lines. Then I saw it under your pillow months later and just assumed you - ”  
  
“O-o-okay, okay!” Jaskier removed his hands, feeling like he might die on the spot. His cheeks had turned an impressive scarlet. “I – I think that’s quite enough. _Gods_. A derelict, Geralt? Really? You thought I was a _derelict_?”  
  
“What was I supposed to think? You were stuffing your pants with bread from the fucking floor when we first met. It was the natural conclusion to draw.”  
  
“ _One_ time! I did that _one_ time and you just so happened to - you’re never going to let me live it down, are you?”  
  
Geralt’s smirk was not cruel – in fact, it was almost painfully fond. “No. Never.”  
  
Just then, with a _whoosh_ , a portal opened at their backs and out stepped Casper and Yennefer. All heads turned to them.  
  
“There you are.” The sorceress shot Annika a look. “What happened to staying put?”  
  
“At this point, it’s really on you for expecting me to listen when you speak.”  
  
Casper took one look at the scene, with all of them lazing about the lake, and immediately whooped, tugged off his blouse, and cannonballed straight into the water with a loud splash. Ciri clapped her hands and Yen shook her head as he resurfaced, spitting out mouthfuls of water and grinning up at her.  
  
“What? It’s hotter than a…” The mage trailed off, remembering their youngest member was present and clearing his throat. “It is very hot outside on this day, Yennefer, and the water is most refreshing.”  
  
Geralt looked to the sorceress. “What’s happening? Are they going to let us in?”  
  
“Yes.” Before anyone could celebrate, she held up a finger. “On one condition. The curse hasn’t touched them here, somehow, and they want to keep it that way. We’ll be allowed entry after we remove it.”  
  
Jaskier, who had been muttering about how it was always something with mages, suddenly poked his head up. “' _After_?' Why are you making it sound like it's such a sure thing, Yennefer?”  
  
“Perhaps it wouldn't be if I tried on my own, or even with Casper’s help…but the man who runs this place is a good friend of my old mentor, and a capable sorcerer to boot. If all three of us work together, we should be able to crack it.”  
  
Casper nodded. “Aye, my boss. He’s on his way to us now, just needed to make a few preparations.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The man appeared through a portal of his own minutes later. His appearance was immaculate, his robes far more intricate than the style they’d seen at the keep thus far, sky blue with strings of silver. He had vivid blue eyes, salt-and-pepper hair, and a rough face which, paired with an even rougher voice, made him rather intimidating to look upon. And listen to.  
  
Casper slipped out of the water, pulling his blouse back on and bowing his head as the man surveyed the group. “Ebbos!” He turned to the others, smiling brightly. “This is Ebbos Mete, of Murivel. He heads the expedition here. Been around a long, long time.”  
  
The man bowed his own head cordially as the others stood. Despite his appearance and voice, his words betrayed a sweet, friendly personality. “I’ll have to scold this one later for giving away my age so easily.” He turned back to Casper, who sheepishly scratched the back of his head. “Now, where is the afflicted?”  
  
When he pointed to Jaskier and Geralt, the old man shook his head. "Only one. I understand your confusion, though, given the nature of the curse. Do you know who it touched first?”  
  
Jaskier’s brow furrowed as he thought back. It was all a blur. “It seemed to touch everyone around us all at once.”  
  
“Ah. It may have seemed that way, after it was activated, but it had to have been placed upon a single soul. Yennefer informed me that one of you has experienced symptoms of possession, though she didn't specify who." As the man spoke, Geralt was sure to keep his face a mask of neutrality. "I assume whoever it was was the original recipient but it's no matter. We’ll perform the spell on both. Aside from removing the curse, it will also be sure to purge any unwanted presences that linger in either of your minds.”  
  
Geralt frowned. “And what spell is that?”  
  
“Actually, it’s a simple purging mantra. You’d be surprised how easy it is to unravel demonic magic, with the proper resources. It won’t get rid of the demon itself, and might not even fix those currently suffering out there in the world, but it’s a start.”  
  
“And how is it you’re able to cast here, with chaos the way it is everywhere else?”  
  
Ebbos smiled kindly, not fazed by the Witcher’s apprehension. “It just so happens Aedd Gynvael was built upon a ley line. I’ll have Casper show you the structure once we’ve dealt with this.”  
  
“Structure?”  
  
“We believe it to be an ancient portal, though there’s never been any success opening it in the past and we’re wary of stirring up…well, exactly what you’ve managed to stir up. I’ll be happy to answer any further questions you have after. You all look like you need a hearty meal and a warm bed, and they’re just about to serve supper in the dining hall.” He let out a little giggle, which tickled the white-grey whiskers of his grand mustache. “Lemon soup tonight. My favorite. Now, shall we get started?”  
  
Geralt did not really know how to feel about this man - could sense only a strange, radiant warmth from him - but short of sleeping out in the wilds in the one caravan they had left, there really were no other options.  
  
“Fine. Do what you must.”  
  
The three mages formed a circle around Geralt and Jaskier. Before they began, Ebbos warned them that the demon might try fighting back, or they might see some concerning images. Anything they did see was to be taken note of, however, as it could lead them to a more permanent solution.  
  
Geralt listened to every word of the incantation, realizing that Ebbos was right – it really was quite simple. Nothing happened at first, Ciri and Annika watching with trepidation from the sidelines, but eventually everyone involved became aware of a strange tingling sensation.  
  
Jaskier made a soft noise, frowning at the way it mingled unpleasantly with his leg. Geralt furtively took his hand, giving it a light squeeze.  
  
Within moments, a pure, bright light bathed both men and, shortly, the entirety of the circle. The tingling evolved into a slightly more painful feeling that was hard to place on the body. It felt like it was everywhere, but nowhere, tugging and tugging until –  
  
Suddenly, Yen cried out and staggered, a hand flying up to touch her closed eyes. Geralt’s own widened though neither of the other mages stopped the spell.  
  
“Yen?”  
  
She didn’t answer, stumbling. Ebbos swiftly caught her elbow, holding her steady, but it seemed she was still in excruciating pain. Geralt felt panic flare up in his chest.  
  
“Yen! Stop the spell, it’s hurting her - ”  
  
He tried to go to her but found he couldn’t. She was struggling to speak. “I see - I see hi - ”  
  
It all culminated in the light brightening to blinding degrees that forced everyone in the vicinity to shut their eyes. Jaskier and Geralt felt the force that had been tugging at them rip something free and a strange but comforting warmth filled the empty spaces it left behind.  
  
Everyone reeled as the light faded and Yen fell to her knees. Geralt was upon her in an instant, grabbing her elbow, calling her name.  
  
“Yen? Talk to me, what happened?” He rounded fiercely on the other two, eyes wild. “Why the fuck didn’t you stop? You - ”  
  
The sorceress laid a calming hand upon his chest and her eyes finally opened. They were unharmed. She was unharmed.  
  
“It’s all right, Geralt. They were right to. I saw…I saw something. A face. His face, he - ”  
  
“Vrart?”  
  
“No. Someone else. I think whoever it was is behind…” She frowned, struggling with something internally. “Shit. _Why_ can’t I remember?"  
  
Ebbos sighed, taking a step back and clasping his hands together. “Could be any number of things. Perhaps some sort of enchantment to keep you from remembering whatever it was once you’ve seen it. We’ll look into it further.” Beneath the stache, a broad smile broke out. “But congratulations! The curse has been broken. For now, at least, you are free from the demon's influence.”  
  
Geralt wanted to grumble something about breaking something else, but he couldn’t deny the light feeling in his chest. Though he hadn’t noticed it while under the effects of the hex, he realized now how weighty it had been on his entire being.  
  
“Now, Casper. Why don’t you show them to their quarters? I’m sure they’ll want to wash up a bit before dinner.” Ebbos tossed a still-soaked Ciri a playful wink. “Those who haven't already, at least.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Casper spent the next half-hour giving them a short tour of Aedd Gynvael. It was all they really had the attention span for, after the day’s exhausting events, but he did stop at the ramparts to show them what Ebbos had been referring to.  
  
There, at the center of the dig site, stood a massive monument. It looked like a door, though it had nothing else around it, lead to no rooms or hallways or anything of the sort. The large keyhole and its stone frame and base were really the only door-like things about it.  
  
He informed them it had been there for as long as anyone could remember, and seemed to be what was stabilizing chaos in the desert.  
  
Realizing that they were swiftly fading before his eyes, however, he stopped his proud little magic lesson and quickly guided them to their rooms, where they freshened up before dinner. Yen hung back in Geralt and Jaskier's long enough to do what she could with her remaining strength and start on magically healing the bard's leg. She wasn't able to accomplish very much but managed, at least, to mend some of its horribly-shattered bones.  
  
"Be careful with it. I'm afraid...right now, at least, I'm not sure how it's going to impede your ability to walk. Long-term, that is. I would've preferred to do this at a far earlier stage, but..." At his disheartened expression, she smiled. "We'll try more again tomorrow, all right?"  
  
After they had changed - Jaskier forced to wear plainer garb and mourning the destruction of his pretty, pretty clothes from the village - they ventured to the communal dining hall to meet with the others. It was a large, lively place, with countless robed scholars devouring their food and excitedly discussing their findings of the day.  
  
It started off all right. A few peculiar glances, nothing too severe. The others had arrived before Geralt and Jaskier, saving them a seat at a long table at the center of the room. The Witcher then waited in the line outside the vast kitchens, got a helping of Ebbos's favorite lemon soup for him and the bard, and returned to his seat without incident.  
  
Eventually, though - with his keen hearing - he started to notice the murmurs. The usual, like 'abomination,' whispered behind his back. Quiet, curious, and benign at first, but little by little, the crueler words began bleeding through clear as day.  
  
“A couple? How unnatural.”  
  
“Poor fool doesn't know what he's gotten himself into.”  
  
“Nah, the fool’s _into_ it. Makes him just as sick. Worse, even.”  
  
“But I’ve heard they can enchant people. Make ‘em do what they please. Bet the mutant’s made him his thrall, bet he forces him to…”  
  
Geralt’s shoulders tensed as the accusations went from mildly irritating to flat-out disgusting. He was used to hearing it about himself, never paid it any mind. But the things they were saying about Jaskier, who was holding his hand - simply happy to do so, with the curse gone - and chattering obliviously away at his side…  
  
They grew louder. More obnoxious. Yen caught on next. When they used a particularly awful word Geralt abruptly stood and turned on his heel. Jaskier startled as the legs of their entire bench screeched against the marble floor – he followed the other’s heated gaze to the offending table, confusion evident on his face.  
  
As it turned out, however, Geralt hadn’t needed to act at all. Before he could storm over and snatch their foul tongues straight from their mouths, Casper – who had been passing by on his way back with his meal and overheard – abruptly grabbed the man who was spouting the worst of it by his collar. In one motion he yanked him out of his seat, steered him towards the wall and pinned him there.  
  
“Casper - what the _hell_ , man!” It was a skinny whelp with the kind of face you just wanted to punch. He squirmed but found no purchase in the other’s hold, though he was only using one arm, the other keeping his soup bowl carefully balanced upon its tray. “Let go!”  
  
The mage’s tone was deceptively cordial, a good-natured smile plastered to his face. “Sorry, Rhys. Afraid I’m gonna need to you to apologize first.”  
  
“What? Oh, that's how it is. Fine, I’m _sorry_ \- ”  
  
An eye roll. “Not to me, you daft prick.”  
  
‘Rhys’ – who was rapidly going bright red with Casper’s elbow digging into his windpipe – resentfully jerked his head over to the duo.  
  
Cruel, watery eyes found indifferent gold ones. “Sorry, _muta_ \- _ack_ \- ”  
  
“Ah, ah.” He had choked on the word as Casper increased the pressure. “Do it properly, or I’ll do worse.”  
  
There was a long pause, the dining hall silent in anticipation. For a moment it seemed as though Rhys would rather pass out than comply. Eventually, when his knees started to give, he finally changed his tune.  
  
“My apologies, Witcher. We don’t get many of…your kind out here. We were just curious about how it all works - ” Casper jerked his elbow, and the man quickly remedied his statement, “ - _not_ that it’s any business of ours. It – it won’t happen again.”  
  
“There’s a good lad.” Casper released him and he fell, but the mage quickly hoisted him back up, brushed him off, and gave him a little pat on the shoulder. “Was that so hard?”  
  
"Fuck off, Casper."  
  
With that he traipsed back over to their table as if nothing had happened. Geralt sat down, scowling as the mage slid into the bench across from him and Jaskier. “You didn’t have to do that.”  
  
“Probably shouldn’t have, either, but I just couldn’t help myself.” A shrug. “Kid’s a soap-resistant wankstain.”  
  
Jaskier made an exasperated noise. “Can someone _please_ explain what just happened?”  
  
“A moment.” Geralt placed a hand on his before addressing Casper again. “You didn't have to, but I appreciate that you did. If it had been me, things would have ended badly.”  
  
Starting to piece it all together, Jaskier shot a scathing glare at Rhys, who quickly looked away - though that was more likely due to the three women currently boring holes in his head with their eyes. “Yeah, that’s right.”  
  
Shortly after the disruption, the dining hall’s pleasant atmosphere returned. Geralt and the others ate and drank until the rest of the keep’s inhabitants retired and only they were left, laughing and talking amiably amongst themselves. The removal of the curse had brought some semblance of relief, and though it didn’t mean all their problems were solved, they were content to bask in that small victory at least for the night.  
  
At some point Yen and Ciri turned in, and Annika followed shortly after – though everyone suspected she intended to snoop around rather than return to her room.  
  
That left Jaskier, Casper, Geralt, and a flask of whiskey that they were pouring into their cups as they chatted. Geralt didn’t do much talking but found himself unable to tear his eyes away as the bard smiled and laughed, looking almost as carefree as he had before all this.  
  
“Oi, Casper. I couldn’t help but notice the ink on your back.” It was something Jaskier had caught a glimpse of at the oasis, a long but delicate blade just between the mage’s shoulders. “Mind if I ask what it means?”  
  
“Not at all. I got it in honor of a dear friend who passed.”  
  
He nearly choked on his drink. “Gods, sorry, I – I didn’t mean to dredge up - ”  
  
“’S all right. It was a long time ago.”  
  
Intent on lightening the mood, the bard cast a sly look at Geralt. “Remember yours?”  
  
“Ugh. Don’t remind me.”  
  
Casper’s eyes widened in surprise. “You have one, too? Where is it?”  
  
“Removed by a friend. It was - ”  
  
“A drunken misadventure,” Jaskier interjected with a pink-faced grin, which caused the mage to laugh. Geralt shot him a look.  
  
“Something funny?”  
  
Casper gently shook his head. “I’m only thinking back to when I got mine. As far as drunken misadventures go, I’m sure I’ve got you beat.”  
  
“Doubt it.” Geralt crossed his arms over his chest with a grunt. “Try me.”  
  
“Ooh!” Jaskier bounced in his seat. “Loser has to finish their drink in one go.”  
  
Casper nodded. “Deal. So, the day before, I came to the realization that I was terrified of needles. Got blasted the day of, passed out during, and woke as soon as it was done. I sat up, took one look at the artist's bloodied tools and promptly vomited all over his poor assistant.”  
  
Geralt snorted. “That’s nothing.”  
  
“No, no. It gets worse. You see, his poor assistant turned out to also be his lover and when I tried going in to help I accidentally slipped and…well, copped a feel. With two hands, which makes it doubly unpardonable. And then, as it _also_ turned out, his _wife_ \- ”  
  
“ _Wife_? Why was she even _there_?" The bard chuckled, pulling out his notebook. "Oh, I love this.”  
  
“She’d been oblivious to their affair but his reaction immediately gave them away. Anyway, the whole thing ended up with him chasing me, her chasing him, and the mistress chasing them both. To shake them all I had to dive into the canal, which isn’t the _cleanest_ place to bring an open wound. Contracted scarlet fever, nearly died and was bedridden for months.”  
  
“Brilliant.” Jaskier, who had been laughing the whole way through, gave a little round of applause. “Just brilliant. Bravo. Drink up, Geralt.”  
  
“Fuck.” The Witcher uncrossed his arms and shook his head, raising his mug. “All right. You’ve got me beat.”  
  
"' _Geralt admitted, with the teensiest ounce of respect_.'" Jaskier transcribed, a giddy smile on his face.  
  
“A victory I am not proud to claim.” Casper peered wistfully into his own mug before raising it to meet the other’s. “I’ll join you. To…misadventures. Drunken and otherwise.”  
  
They both downed their drinks and slammed their mugs on the table. After a bit more chin-wagging, Casper decided it was high time he head off to bed. Before Geralt could suggest they do the same, Jaskier adopted a very sneaky, very obvious demeanor and once the mage had gone, produced a bottle he’d filched from the kitchens.  
  
“Up for one more misadventure?”  
  
Geralt sighed heavily, aware of the many aches and pains in his body. “Where the fuck are you getting this energy?”  
  
“Dunno. Must be the spirits.” Jaskier stood, insistently tugging the other’s sleeve. While his gait was still very off, his leg not nearly as healed as it could be, he felt better and lighter than he had in weeks. “Come _on_. I spied the perfect spot when Casper was showing us around.”  
  
He dragged a grumbling Witcher through the now-empty halls and up to the ramparts, which were also deserted. It was late, nearing midnight at least, and the desert and dig site below were quiet as the dead.  
  
They both sat with their legs hanging over the edge, surveying the surprisingly serene, peaceful sight before them while passing the bottle back and forth in comfortable silence. It was eventually broken by Jaskier.  
  
“So, what were they saying? You know, before. It's not like you to get upset over things like that.”  
  
“That was...different. They were saying I put you under my spell.”  
  
“Ooh.” The bard wiggled his brows suggestively. “Well, they’re not _wrong_.”  
  
“No. Not in that way.” Geralt scowled at the thought, taking a needlessly aggressive swig. “They suggested I used axii on you. To make you do things. That you’re with me against your will.” He gritted his teeth. “They went into graphic detail.”  
  
Jaskier’s amusement waned. “Oh. Bollocks. I’m sorry you had to hear that.” He gazed up at the moon for a long moment before turning back, eyes brimming with sincerity. “But you and I know the truth. That’s what’s important, right?”  
  
Taken aback, Geralt nodded slowly. The other man was always surprising him with such sentiments. “Right.”  
  
“Ah. It all makes sense now. Though it was still pretty shocking to see our even-tempered friend leap to arms like that.”  
  
“Hm.”  
  
“What, no insults?” Jaskier teased, snatching the bottle and taking a sip. “Geralt, Geralt, Geralt. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you’re having second thoughts about him.”  
  
“Takes more than that.” Geralt stopped when he realized the words trivialized how much it meant to him that Casper had stepped up to protect what he valued almost above all else. “But it’s a start.”  
  
Silence came again. Of course, Jaskier stubbornly decided to break it again mere moments later.  
  
“You know what no curse means, don’t you?”  
  
“What does it mean?” Geralt asked innocently, though he knew exactly what it meant.  
  
Jaskier placed the bottle on the ledge and clumsily clambered on top of him, the Witcher’s hands keeping him steady. “It _means_ we get to finish what we started.”  
  
“And if someone finds us?”  
  
“No one’s come by in the last hour.”  
  
“Fair enough.” Geralt grunted as the bard settled on his lap, a familiar, comfortable weight. No matter how many times they did this, he always marveled at how nicely the other’s legs curled about his waist. How perfectly he fit between them. “But we have nothing to prepare you. I don’t want to hurt - ”  
  
Before he could finish the sentence, Jaskier reached into his pocket and proudly produced a small vial with a sloppy “a-ha!” He was quite tipsy, however, and his fumbling fingers had it bouncing around on the palms of his hands. He struggled valiantly to secure his grip, but the motions only made it worse. “Shit – fuck - _shit_ – ”  
  
One bounce was too high and it flew right over his shoulder but Geralt swiftly lurched forward and caught it, keeping a firm arm around Jaskier to ensure he didn’t fall. He settled back, studying the vial dubiously.  
  
“Who the fuck keeps oil in their pocket?" He raised a brow. "Just how long have you been planning this, Jaskier?”  
  
“Hmm. Hard to say. I thi-i-ink…” Jaskier hemmed and hawed, pretending to ponder it all while squirming around and drawing a series of low, rumbling sounds. “Oh, yeah. The very second the curse was broken. _Naturally_.”  
  
“Naturally.” Geralt repeated, voice hoarse. The bard didn’t know – or perhaps knew all too well – that every little movement he made, every minute shift and twitch, was pure torture. He decided to return the favor with some subtle ministrations of his own, producing a chorus of pleasing little 'ah''s. “Sure you’re up for it? It’s been a long day.” Cool, feline eyes gestured to the steep drop before them as the bard's eyelids fluttered. “If you're not careful, you might fall.”  
  
Jaskier snorted mid-'ah.' They both knew the Witcher would never allow that to happen, but it was fun to play along.  
  
“Forget everything I’ve said. To fall to my death while you’re ploughing me, Geralt - _that_ would be the most fitting end of all.”  
  
And so, without incident, they hurriedly shed their clothes and christened the ramparts of the strange new fortress they’d found themselves in, their only witnesses being the stars and full moon above, the sprawling desert below. And for the first time in a long time, things felt normal. All was well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I use bits and bobs from name generators sometimes and you do not know how badly I wanted to make the head guy’s name “Drobunend Wimbidick,” which was the first result I got. Please appreciate my self-control.


	87. Chapter 87

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Another relatively chill, kind of honeymoon-ish chapter, because in the next shit doth finally hit the fan! T_T say "aye" if you believe in me and think I'll be able to resolve all these issues AND Geralt and Jaskier's different life expectancies in one go! (pls I'm scared) (ok i kind of have a plan)
> 
> sorry for typos im sleeby

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AWw Henry Cavill posted another Witcher holiday edit on insta, we love people who join their own fandoms, 10/10! <3 
> 
> Also can we take a moment to consider the similarities between Geralt of Rivia and the Grinch? As in, there are way too many? And if he's the Grinch, Jaskier is the Grinch's dog, Max. In this essay I will...

The next morning, Jaskier woke to a pounding headache. He let out a ragged moan, his mouth as dry as the desert they’d found themselves in, and there was a hot, heavy weight bearing down on his chest and belly that simply needed to go. Without thinking, he shoved it away with both arms so forcefully that whatever it was rolled over the edge and landed with a surprisingly hefty _thunk_.  
  
That _thunk_ was followed by an even louder expletive.  
  
Geralt shot up from where he had fallen, bloodshot eyes peering over the top of the bed. He was stark naked, a hand clutching his head. He had most definitely been fast asleep.  
  
“What the _fuck_ , Jaskier?”  
  
“Oh – Geralt!” The bard pushed himself up but immediately winced when he became aware of a different kind of pain. A dull but implicating soreness. “Ugh, why am I so..?” His eyes widened when he realized that he was also _in puris naturalibus_. “Where are my clothes?” A gasp as he took in the vague, finger-shaped bruises on his thighs, a reddening bite mark on his shoulder. “Did we…you know? Fool around? Knock boots?”  
  
The mattress dipped as Geralt sat upon its edge, hunched over and still rubbing the spot where his skull had connected with the floor. It was far too early for this. “We did. Why?”  
  
“Gods, you really did a number on me.” A groan, the sheets shifting as Jaskier tried to find a comfortable position. “How am I not remembering this? There must have been alcohol involved. Just how much did I drink?”  
  
That had the Witcher’s irritation dissipating, and he angled himself to face the other. “Not that much.”  
  
“Well, this headache is telling me otherwise. I must have overindulged.”  
  
Geralt firmly shook his head. “You didn’t. We stopped drinking before we slept together and you were wide awake after. Annoying as shit, but sober.”  
  
“That can’t be tr - ”  
  
“You sat at the desk for hours, writing. Even snuck off to the kitchens when you thought I was asleep, came back with a whole fucking wheel of cheese.”  
  
Jaskier eyed the half-eaten evidence on the nightstand. “ _Yikes_.”  
  
“I had to put a pillow over my head to block out your chewing.”  
  
“Sounds like a drunk me move, honestly.”  
  
“No. I know you. And if you were, I would never…” Geralt placed the back of his hand upon the other’s forehead to gauge his temperature. It was normal. Everything about him was, aside from the memory loss. “Something’s not right. What _do_ you remember?”  
  
The bard thought back. “I…remember the oasis. Casper’s delightful tale. The dining hall debacle.”  
  
“And?”  
  
“Everyone went to bed? After that, it’s…” Jaskier’s fingers came up to massage his throbbing temples and he shook his head. “It’s just…empty.”  
  
Geralt’s frown deepened. He was starting to sense foul play. The bard’s head injury wasn’t the issue, as it had been healed by Yen the day before. And if something sinister had happened to make him lose so much time, it would have been when he left their room. The only instance where he was alone.  
  
They weren’t talking long, though. Half an hour at most. And Geralt had sensed nothing, kept an ear out just in case though it wasn't unusual for Jaskier to stay up past the witching hours.  
  
There was the possibility that whatever it was happened while they were together, but that thought was somehow worse.  
  
“I don’t like it. We’re going to Yen.”  
  
“But _Geralt_ \- ”  
  
“Now.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
At the insistent rapping on her door, the sorceress cursed and clambered out of bed. She flung it open to reveal an agitated Witcher who was tightly clutching the back of a very exhausted bard’s knee-length nightshirt, as though he might scurry away the moment he let go.  
  
Even in the scant light she could see they were both hardly presentable, Geralt’s trousers and tunic thrown on so haphazardly that most of the buttons and ties were either still open or incorrectly done up.  
  
Jaskier, who wasn’t even wearing pants, offered a sleepy, apologetic smile. “So sorry about this, Yennefer. Maybe you can calm him down.”  
  
She leaned heavily against the doorframe, talking through a yawn. “You realize dawn has only just broken?”  
  
“Yen - ”  
  
“And yet here you are, at my doorstep, _neither_ of you appropriately dressed - ”  
  
Before she could finish the sentence, Geralt shouldered past her and into the room, towing Jaskier along with him. Once inside, he let go and his charge happily wilted into one of the plush armchairs in front of the cold fireplace.  
  
“Really, Geralt. You’re making mountains out of molehills.”  
  
The Witcher thrust a finger at him as Yen quickly closed the door to hide the scene from prying eyes. “Something’s wrong. Fix it.”  
  
“Nothing is _wrong_. It’s just a fluke - ”  
  
“A fluke, Jaskier? You lost - ”  
  
“I know what I lost, and I'm not happy about it, but I'm telling you it _had_ to have been the drink - ”  
  
“It wasn’t the fucking drink!”  
  
Yen sighed heavily, willing away the remnants of her deep slumber and floating over to the bickering pair. Before it could go any further, she raised a hand to quiet them.  
  
“If we must go on with whatever this is at this ungodly hour, can one of you at least start from the beginning? And speak slower. Much slower.”  
  
“Geralt is worried because I can’t seem to remember anything from the lovely night we just spent together.”  
  
She raised a brow. “As in..?” Jaskier nodded and she let out a low whistle. “Well, that in and of itself _is_ worrisome. From experience, those nights are always very…memorable.”  
  
"They really are, aren't they?"  
  
Geralt had started pacing back and forth before the hearth, looking seconds away from blowing a gasket, but stopped to glare at both past and present lovers. How they were speaking so casually was beyond him.  
  
“He lost hours, Yen. That's cause for concern.” Some of the heat left his tone, replaced by an almost imperceptible desperation. “And there was a small window last night, where someone could have...”  
  
Her striking eyes softened. It wasn’t fair of her to make light of his concern, especially after everything the pair had been through. “I'll check him out, Geralt.”  
  
Jaskier made a show of looking shocked and betrayed, but after a moment sighed and offered himself up in defeat. “Fine, fine. But be gentle with me. I’m fragile today. Like a delicate flower.”  
  
“Be quiet and lie still, delicate flower.”  
  
She conducted a thorough examination, checking his head and the rest of his body with small pulses of magic to see if she could find anything that might explain away this inexplicable lapse.  
  
After a long while, she drew back and shook her head. “Nothing.”  
  
“How is that possible?” Geralt, who had been watching the whole process with a hawk’s eye.  
  
“I’m not sure. But if someone here did… _tamper_ with him, as a prank or otherwise, I would be able to tell. People, no matter how clever they try getting with it, always have a distinguishing marker that allows their magic to be traced right back to the source."  
  
"Demons?"  
  
"Trickier, as we've seen. But still obvious if you're looking for it. Short of…oh, I don’t know, some sort of _god_ , I can’t imagine anything that might have been able to erase his memory and not leave a single shred of evidence behind.”  
  
“Gods don’t exist.”  
  
“Precisely. Which means our problem lies elsewhere.” When he tensed, she offered a reassuring smile. “ _If_ there even is one. The human mind can be a terribly fragile thing, Geralt. Best we can do is keep an eye out for anything funny. Anyway, while you're here, let me have another go at that leg.”  
  
When they made it back to bed, Jaskier pulled a dissatisfied Geralt’s head onto his chest, idly running his fingers through coarse, silver hair and working out all the little gnarls and tangles.  
  
“You know, this sort of thing is bound to happen eventually.”  
  
A frown, for the Witcher knew where this was going. “Eventually. Not now.”  
  
“I’m not getting any younger.”  
  
“You are young. I don’t want to talk about this.”  
  
“We _must_ \- ”  
  
Geralt rolled onto his side, which allowed him to look directly into Jaskier’s eyes. There it was again, that quiet desperation. Jaskier sighed and placed a chaste kiss on his lips, murmuring softly against them and gently knocking their foreheads together.  
  
“We can’t avoid the topic forever, Geralt.”  
  
As he started to pull away, the Witcher followed, catching his lips again and deepening the kiss.  
  
Jaskier spoke out of the corner of his mouth. “Are you using your Witchery wiles to distract me?”  
  
Without breaking the kiss, Geralt placed an elbow on the bed, shifting around until he was on top. “Mhm.”  
  
“You scamp. I’ll have you know I will not be so easily – ah, no, yeah. Okay, th-that works.” Jaskier stammered out the words as calloused fingers began to wander. “Think you can leave a more… _lasting_ impression this time around?”  
  
Despite the compromising position he was in and the fact that his mouth was otherwise occupied, Geralt rolled his eyes and managed a muffled, chiding, “too soon, Jaskier.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
After a few more hours, they decided to get dressed and leave the cozy confines of their room around the time they started hearing the fortress come to life outside their door.  
  
And come to life it did, all at once. Around eight, countless robed figures emerged from their quarters in single file and headed towards the dining hall for breakfast. Jaskier and Geralt stood in their doorway, waiting for the bustling hallway to clear.  
  
“They’re certainly…organized.”  
  
“They are.”  
  
"Creepy. Like a hive mind. _Eugh_.”  
  
"I should've known that would be your reaction to a modicum of discipline.”  
  
“ _You_ should've seen me in school. Oh, look, there’s Rhys!” Jaskier spied their antagonist from the previous night amongst the rabble. As he passed their door, he stole a furtive glance. “Morning, Rhys! Er - it was Rhys, wasn’t it?”  
  
The man ducked his head and hustled quickly by. Geralt groaned. “Why, Jaskier?”  
  
“It’s called killing with kindness, Geralt. For when you can’t _actually_ kill them. You should try it sometime.”  
  
“No, thanks.” The brunt of the crowd passed, leaving only a few stragglers hurrying by. Geralt stepped out into the hallway and stretched his arms and back, grunting when a few bones popped into place. “Come on.”  
  
They found the others – most of them – at the topmost floor of one of the spires at the keep’s entrance. There, Yen, Ciri and Casper were situated around a desk that was just barely visible beneath a mountain of books and parchment.  
  
“There you are!” Casper grinned, waving them through the door. “Welcome to my office. It’s a bit of a snake pit, sorry. Haven’t had much time to tidy up.” He hurried to the other end of the room, pulling a few more chairs from a bursting closet. “But make yourselves at home – careful not to step on the – yeah, there you go.”  
  
The space was large and round and surprisingly colorful, filled to the brim with a multitude of oddities, each one more interesting than the last. On the walls were shelves of not only books but well-polished artifacts, spherical and triangular. They glowed and moved. In the corner sat a lush fern, above which a tiny cloud hovered, sprinkling water upon it and filling the place with the pleasant pitter-patter of rain. Though they'd only spent a day or two in the desert, it made Jaskier realize how much he missed that sound.  
  
"What are you _talking_ about?" Wide eyes darted from corner to corner in an attempt to catalogue every fascinating detail. "It's brilliant!"  
  
Similar items hung from its high ceiling, strange talismans and jewels of every shape and size. Geralt spied a glass jar upon Casper’s desk. It contained a single eyeball that darted wildly around, its iris an otherworldly blue. “Erynia eye?”  
  
“Well-spotted. Took her down myself.”  
  
“Not an easy kill.”  
  
“You’ve got that right.” Casper unbuttoned his sleeve and rolled it up to his elbow, revealing a jagged scar. “Nearly cost me my arm.”  
  
Geralt wordlessly untied and pulled back the collar of his own tunic, revealing a similar mark below his collarbone. Naturally, a heated discussion about various subspecies of harpy ensued.  
  
“ – also got a zeugl tooth somewhere around…ah! Here’s the little bugger.”  
  
“Little? Thing must’ve been fucking massive.”  
  
Jaskier took the seat beside Ciri and leaned in close to murmur in her ear. “Tell me, are they bonding over monster parts?”  
  
“So it would seem. At least they’ve found each other.”  
  
“ _Adorable_.”  
  
She giggled, then shook her head, keeping her voice hushed. “Oh, we really shouldn’t laugh. It’s just so -”  
  
The Witcher shot her a scolding look and she ducked her head to hide her amusement. Yen sighed, rolling up the parchment she’d been studying and reaching for another.  
  
“Nothing, nothing, and nothing. Did either of you happen to see Annika on your way here? She was supposed to bring me that book. You know, with the story about the warlock.”  
  
“No.” Geralt handed the tooth back to Casper and eyed her skeptically. “Thought you said it was just that. A story.”  
  
“Yes, but it’s the only thing we’ve found so far that even remotely resembles what’s been going on. The stolen body, the demons, chaos being boobed for a time...”  
  
Jaskier wrinkled his nose. “Can we really be that desperate for answers?”  
  
“Well, yes. I believe we are. And I just can’t get it out of my head. The first deal ever made? Why would there be no mention of it anywhere else? I’ve gone through,” she surveyed the rolls of parchment piled up at her feet, counting silently, “almost forty pieces of literature on the subject and not _one_ can confirm or deny it. If that story is true, if that warlock did exist and he was the first, it’s as if history itself forgot him.”  
  
Casper nodded. “I’ve asked Ebbos to look into it, too. Our library is one of the largest in the country. We have Elder-inscribed hunks of rock dating back to the birth of the bloody world. Granted, goetia is a forbidden art, which includes written works, so what you're looking at is what we've got. Still, we should be able to find _something_.” He sat on the edge of his desk, scrunching his face up miserably. “Doesn’t help that I’m hungover as balls.”  
  
“That was me about an hour ago.” Jaskier tilted his head towards Geralt, who was chewing what looked to be an entire pastry but stopped long enough to side-eye him. “What _you_ need, my friend, is a - ”  
  
Yen cleared her throat.  
  
“ – cold bath.”  
  
Casper snorted. “That requires a tub.”  
  
“I saw plenty of suitable tubs on the way here.”  
  
“Here? You’ll have to point them out.” A careful pause. “The tubs, I mean.”  
  
The sorceress hung her head in her hands. “For fuck’s sake.”  
  
Thankfully, before the innuendo could spiral out completely, the office door flew open and Annika stormed in, carrying in her arms a huge basket containing a laughable amount of scones and other breakfast pastries. Everyone looked up and she stopped short before the desk, face a veritable storm cloud.  
  
Casper chuckled. “Ran into Ebbos, I see.”  
  
She thrust the basket down and plopped into the seat next to Jaskier. “No, the geezer _ambushed_ me. Said he heard about last night’s incident and sends his apologies. Apparently in the form of animal fat and buttermilk, because gods know what we all need right now is _gout_.”  
  
Jaskier gave the lizard that was now a permanent fixture on her shoulder a little under-the-beard scratch. “Hello, Vrart Junior. Who’s a good girl? Who is it? Is it y - ”  
  
Geralt’s brow twitched. “'Vrart Junior?’”  
  
"Annika and I thought of it yesterday." The lizard flicked her tongue happily as Jaskier plucked a raspberry from one of the pastries and popped it into her mouth. "A joke at first, but I think she likes it."  
  
Yen impatiently stuck out her hand. “Book?”  
  
The witch fished around in her pack, pulling it out and handing it off.  
  
“Right.” The sorceress peered around the room, which was suddenly a little too cozy. “I see no reason why we need to be breathing down each other’s necks for this. Jaskier, I know it feels like it's healed but you really need to start working on getting strength back in that leg...how about both of you grab some literature and go, and we’ll regroup later?” She narrowed her eyes at the bard, who had opened his mouth to speak. “Gods help me, if you so much as think the word ‘tub’ on your way out I will chuck this straight at your head.”  
  
She shook the book menacingly and they made to leave. When they reached the door, Jaskier turned to Casper.  
  
“Remind me to tell you about the _beautiful_ tub in the room across from – all right, all right, I’m going, I’m go - _oi_!”  
  
The book was already sailing through the air with expert precision and he quickly shoved Geralt through and shut the door, which it crashed into in his stead.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Late afternoon found them back at the oasis, taking a break from their research to engage in some exercise. This time in the form of swordplay. The _other_ kind of swordplay.  
  
Jaskier placed his hands on his knees, panting and hastily untying the top of his shirt to let out some of the heat and moisture building up. He glanced at the water behind him, which he had nearly toppled into moments earlier, before returning his gaze to his opponent. The bastard hadn’t even broken a sweat.  
  
“Still too early to surrender?”  
  
“What do you think?”  
  
The bard groaned, pretending to squint at an invisible watch on his wrist. “This thing’s broken. What’s it been, an hour?”  
  
“Try ten minutes.”  
  
“That’s impossible. Look how sweaty I am.”  
  
Geralt smirked, lifting the tip of his blade off the ground and using it to gesture to the one in Jaskier’s hand. “Come on, Jaskier. What better way to get you moving again?”  
  
“I can think of _several_.” A sigh as the bard straightened, wiping some sweat from his forehead with a handkerchief before stuffing it back in his pocket. “Two of which we accomplished only this morning. Say, why don’t we just go back to our room and bang out a few mo – ”  
  
He cut himself off with a yelp as Geralt abruptly swung. He raised his sword protectively in what he thought to be a mirror image of the move he’d just been taught but the Witcher easily, immediately pinpointed the weaknesses in his stance, took advantage of the opening, and knocked the weapon aside. Of course, he stopped the blow seconds before it could make contact but let his sword remain inches from bare skin as a testament to those weaknesses.  
  
"Be more mindful of your face and neck.” Geralt took a step back. “Again. Like I showed you.”  
  
"Let's face it, Geralt. Fighting simply isn't my _thing_.”  
  
“I’m not teaching you how to fight. I'm teaching you self-defense. _Again_.”  
  
Jaskier’s frustration grew with each failed attempt. On the last, he was once again pushed towards the lake but this time lost his footing. Geralt quickly snatched the front of his blouse, holding him in place but allowing him to dangle over the water. His heels scraped against the edge, hands floundering in the air.  
  
“Let go, you arse!” He flailed but stopped immediately when he remembered that freeing himself meant falling into the water below. “You _must_ realize by now that this is going nowhere - I’m not strong like you, never will be.”  
  
The Witcher didn’t release him. “I wouldn’t want you to be anything other than what you are, Jaskier, but _you_ need to realize that strength isn't always physical. You're not weak. Yours just lies elsewhere.”  
  
“Oh?” Irritability had gotten the better of him, his tone turning childish. “Where - my left foot? And - will you _please_ let me down?”  
  
“No.”  
  
Jaskier huffed. “Wonderful.”  
  
“Look at it this way - the sword, that’s where my strength lies. It’s my weapon.” Geralt tilted his head to the side, gaze no longer sharp and stern but warm, affectionate. “Words are yours.”  
  
“Words. Right. Can’t wait to try those out in battle.”  
  
“You know what I mean. They can cut your enemy down just as effectively as my blade.” His lips quirked playfully. “Remember, I saw you talk a man to death.”  
  
“He died of natural causes!”  
  
“Thought it was heart failure.”  
  
“Same _thing_ \- okay, enough of this. I may not have been able to master your stupid bloody stance, but if I’m going down, you’re coming with me.”  
  
The Witcher’s amusement faltered, morphing into a confused frown. “What do you - ?”  
  
Jaskier grinned and grabbed the wrist of the hand that was holding the front of his shirt before kicking off the edge and dragging Geralt along. They both crashed into the water with a huge splash and resurfaced moments later, Jaskier laughing and coughing simultaneously.  
  
Geralt scowled at him, looking like an angry, wet cat. “I was holding a fucking _sword_ , Jaskier. I could’ve impaled you.”  
  
“'Words are your weapon.’" Jaskier shook his head, fingers clasping the front of Geralt's shirt to float himself closer like a rowboat. "Since when did you start buying into such fanciful notions?”  
  
“It’s not fanciful. It’s the most basic rule of combat - work with what you have. I just...translated it. Into something you might actually listen to.” Geralt glanced up at the sky, noticed the sun had started to set. “Shit. Day went by faster than I thought. We should go back, see if the others had better luck.”  
  
“ _Or_.” Jaskier curled both arms about a firm waist, the pleasantly cool water lapping at their backs as he rested his cheek against Geralt's chest. He lowered his voice to a gentle murmur. “We could stay in here a little longer.”  
  
Geralt looked to the fortress, then back to the bard, to the cornflower blue eyes that peered up at him expectantly through soaked, curling hair. Fortress, bard, fortress, bard. Once. Twice. After the third, he sighed in resignation.  
  
"Fine. But then it's straight back."  
  
"Yes, sir."  
  
"Don't call me that."  
  
"Aye, aye, captain?"  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes, silencing any further attempts with a slow, meaningful kiss and wrapping an arm around the other's back, drawing him closer still. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ik these are long and coming out super fast, i'll slow posting after the next chap. wanted to get the ball rolling before finals yuck


	88. Chapter 88

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Happy pre-thanksgiving update! I'm thankful for cinnamon nicorette, my dog, and youuuu~ 
> 
> After this no more rapidfire chapters, I'll be updating weekly/every two weeks until the very end <3 thanks for putting up with me :) i'm pure garbage at being subtle but i tried :p

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> my brain: u will now feel compelled to try writing "weird flex but ok" but like medieval-style, and then create an entire plot point just to use it  
> me: what why -  
> brain: shhhh

Jaskier could have remained in the water for hours – especially the way they were now, Geralt seated on its edge and quietly reading a scroll, one ankle locked with the bard’s to keep him anchored as he floated on his back and peered up at the gorgeous sunset.  
  
“I know Yen’s stuck on that story, but we can’t rule out the possibility of Vrart’s master being a member of the nobility.” Geralt displayed the scroll. It had a royal seal at its bottom and detailed an incident where a young duchess had inadvertently caused the violent deaths of her entire family after a deal to win the affections of her love interest went south. “Notoriously stupid. And demon-friendly. A dangerous combination.”  
  
Jaskier stopped floating. “Seems odd, though, doesn’t it? Say you’re some aging king, suddenly faced with your own mortality when you wake up one day and find things aren’t quite working as they should. Is it _really_ worth the price to – what, plough a few more court ladies before you kick the bucket? Win a few more jousting competitions?”  
  
Geralt snorted. “While the lengths humans will go for the smallest crumb of power never cease to amaze, I doubt even a noble’s motives would be so shallow.”  
  
“Yes, well. Your power is certainly no crumb. It’s a four-course meal. Are we thinking, then, that this ‘master’ is some sort of conqueror? The leader of a country preparing for war, looking to give themselves an edge? Still doesn’t narrow it down. How many wars are we at now?”  
  
“Not the one to ask.” Geralt rolled the parchment back up, placing it at his side by the others. He then stood with a grunt, offering Jaskier a hand. “Out. Before you turn into a drowner.”  
  
The bard’s eyes widened. “Wh - is that how it works?” He nearly waterboarded himself trying to scramble out of the lake, but paused before taking the outstretched hand when he saw the glimmer of amusement in gold eyes. “Oh, so you're a _funny_ Witcher.”  
  
Geralt helped him out of the water, concern replacing mirth when he put weight on his leg and sucked in a sharp breath. “Jaskier?”  
  
“Stiffer than I thought I’d be, that’s all.”  
  
“Cold water didn't help. I’ll run you a hot bath later.”  
  
“Ooh. Will you be joining me?"  
  
"We'll see."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
As they plodded up the spiral staircase, Geralt heard muffled shouting from above and immediately started taking the steps three at a time.  
  
“Both of you, _stop_!” Ciri, sounding panicked. “If we can all just - ”  
  
“Give it here, Annika.” Yen, voice low and dangerous. “ _Now_.”  
  
“Yennefer,” Casper, diplomatic and calm, “it might be wise to give her some space - ”  
  
“Back off!" Annika and shit, Jaskier knew that tone all too well. She felt cornered, which was never good. “You don't know what it's binding, it could be - ”  
  
“Neither do you!” A pause as the sorceress composed herself. “But never mind that. Just take a deep breath, lower your hand, and give me the - ”  
  
Geralt threw the door open as soon as they reached the top. Annika, who was clutching a book to her chest with her bandaged hand and brandishing the other, startled and accidentally fired off a small blast of energy.  
  
The projectile bounced off a metallic pot with a _clang_ and ricocheted straight towards them but Geralt reacted in time, ducking his head and forcing Jaskier’s down with one hand. It sailed straight over and exploded upon impact with the wall out on the landing, leaving behind a blackened scar.  
  
“You’ve got to stop them, they’ve been at it for – Geralt, no!” Ciri, who Casper had been keeping protectively behind his back with one hand, quickly scurried out around him when the Witcher reached for his sword. “It’s not like that, it was an accident - she didn’t _mean_ it - ”  
  
He drew the blade regardless. “I don’t care what she meant.”  
  
Jaskier touched his arm, not quite sure what to make of the situation but knowing it likely wouldn’t be solved with more violence. “Geralt, is this really necessary?”  
  
Gold eyes found green ones. “Is it?”  
  
“No.” Annika shook her head, face pale, arms falling to her sides. “No, it’s not.”  
  
Yen took a step towards her. “There. Now, let me have the - ”  
  
“ _Yen_.” That was Geralt, immediately noticing the way the witch’s shoulders tensed back up. “Nobody moves until one of you tells me what the fuck we just walked in on.”  
  
After a tense moment Yennefer displayed her hands in a silent truce.  
  
“We found something in the book from my manor. A false page.”  
  
Jaskier glanced dubiously at the object in question. “Which was naturally followed by, ‘hey, let’s try _killing_ each other over it?'”  
  
“There’s also a binding seal. Old, from what I can tell. We weren’t able to sense it before, with chaos being the way it was. Hard to say exactly what purpose it serves. My guess is it's concealing more valuable information.”  
  
Annika shot her a look. “Long story short, she wants to remove it. Which is a terrible fucking plan. Old magic is volatile. Who knows what it could be holding back.”  
  
“It's highly unlikely to be anything dangerous, Annika. Harmless, even.”  
  
"Do you see my fingers?" Annika displayed her bandaged hand. "No? Because they're gone. Why? Another one of your 'harmless' books."  
  
“That’s enough.” Geralt finally sheathed his sword and stepped fully into the room. “What’s on the page?”  
  
“A journal entry. I would read it aloud, if the feral beast in the corner would only retract her remaining claws.”  
  
" _Bite_ me."  
  
Geralt ran a hand over his face, shaking his head. This was a mess. “Just give her the book, Annika. Yen, don't touch the seal. Not until I know more.”  
  
After a bit more convincing – Jaskier proposed a pinky promise that was swiftly denied – an agreement was reached and Annika finally relented, thrusting it into Yennefer’s chest.  
  
She licked her pointer finger and flipped to the page that contained the story, which now had an extra flap that revealed a hastily-scrawled, mostly-blank note.  
  
  
"‘ _Dear journal,_  
  
_I am growing increasingly concerned about the friend I mentioned in my previous entry. I fear writing his name, or about him in too much detail for I know he will –_ ’"  
  
  
Yen pointedly looked up. “There's an empty space here.”  
  
  
" _\- jealous of my natural gifts. He had to work harder, ever since we were boys, to achieve that which came as easily as breathing to me. He saw my strength and craved it. A hunger I thought he might grow out of, and so I let it go.  
  
I was wrong. It has festered, like an open wound.  
  
At the start, we were two like minds with one common goal – contact another world. An impossible feat, according to all, but one we obsessed and fantasized over to the point of madness until one day we found the proof we needed. Proof of other spheres.  
  
That was when everything changed. When he changed.  
  
I caught him talking to himself the other day. When I entered the room, he stopped and the look in his eyes was like nothing I'd ever seen before. Like a man possessed.  
  
Before I made myself known, he mentioned an exchange. He also mentioned some sort of breakthrough. Whatever it is, there is no doubt in my mind that it will bring devastation to all.  
  
Because it is not what we thought - a new world, full of possibilities. It is the hunger I see in my friend’s eyes when he looks at me.  
  
It is fear incarnate. It is all-consuming darkness.  
  
Tonight is the night. He has stolen all of our research. Or destroyed it, I cannot know for certain. Even now, as I write, the words - _’"  
  
  
She huffed. “Another blank spot. Perhaps the author should have cut out some of the vague melodrama instead.”  
  
“ _Yen_.”  
  
“Oh, all right.”  
  
  
"‘ _\- searched his room for any clue as to where he might have gone and found only a scrap of paper on his desk with my name, a time, and a place.  
  
At the stroke of midnight, while the city sleeps, I will meet him there at its heart. He will try to open our world up to that darkness and I intend to stop him by whatever means necessary.  
  
If this is my last entry, I have failed. In that case, I’ve given a series of instructions to my wife. She knows not what they mean but if this is still in tact, she followed them in time. (I know I told you not to look but on the off-chance that you do – for your curiosity is as insatiable as my own – thank you, Lise. I love you. Tell the children their father loves them, too, and he's sorry for allowing that snake into our home.)'"_  
  
  
When she was done, they all went quiet. Casper leaned against the wall, crossing his arms and legs and staring thoughtfully off into space. Eventually, Yen closed the book and Annika placed a hand on her hip, breaking the silence. “It’s dated two days from now. No name, no year.”  
  
Jaskier whistled. “ _Spooky_.”  
  
"Now do you see why I want to remove the seal? This alone,” Yen tapped the book, shaking her head, “gives us _nothing_ of substance.”  
  
Geralt hunched forward in the seat he'd taken, elbows resting on his thighs. “I’m still not convinced any of it is relevant to our situation.”  
  
"Yeah. Our gold's on some duke somewhere." Jaskier interjected, nodding resolutely.  
  
“I had my doubts at first, too. But this entry was hidden just beneath the story of the warlock. And mentions, very vaguely, the concept of a similar 'exchange.' That can’t be a coincidence.”  
  
“True.”  
  
“'A man possessed.’ The friend he mentioned must have made a deal with a demon to take his body, take the power he 'craved.' And as we know, someone out there - maybe some duke somewhere - is trying to do the same to you. It's possible they're even using the very same demon. Now, regarding the seal - ”  
  
The tension in the room returned full-force. Jaskier stood with the intention of diffusing it before it could spiral again but his leg seized, stiff and sore, and he grabbed the back of his chair, just barely catching himself before he could pelt forward.  
  
Geralt was on his feet in an instant, placing a steadying hand on the bard’s lower back as he recovered. “Think it’s time for that bath.” He turned to the others, who had temporarily forgotten their dispute. “It’s getting late. We’ll sleep on it, make a decision in the morning. Are we clear? Nobody touches the book.” He was met with a round of grumbling. “Yen?”  
  
“Yes, I heard you. I don’t appreciate being spoken to like a child.” A sigh. “But fine. I won’t. For now.”  
  
Casper nodded, turning to Jaskier as they all prepared to leave. “Hang on. The tubs in your quarters are inadequate. I’ve got something much better.”  
  
“Tubs.” As the mage fished around in his pocket, Jaskier's mind automatically went back to their conversation from earlier. “Oh - _tubs_!” He squinted. “Thank you? Awfully random boast on your part, and I'm flattered and all, but - ”  
  
Casper’s eyes went wide and he quickly shook his head, cutting him off. “No - fucking hell, no. I meant the actual tubs. There’s a washroom just ‘round the corner from your room with a porcelain beauty that’ll knock you right off your feet.”  
  
He pulled out a key and Jaskier couldn’t help the laugh that escaped his lips. “ _Ohh_. Thank the gods. That was about to get terribly awkward.”  
  
Annika shoved past them towards the door, tossing a comforting "already awkward” over her shoulder.  
  
Casper handed Jaskier the key, also laughing. “You’ve got to stop getting me in trouble. Anyway, here. It’s a privilege reserved for those with seniority, like me, but I won’t tell if you don’t.”  
  
“Ah. My lips are sealed.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
To all of their dismay, it was well past dinner by the time they trudged by the dining hall.  
  
Geralt and Jaskier quickly found the washroom the mage had been referring to. It was indeed an upgrade from the one attached to their room, complete with a massive soaking tub.  
  
Geralt used his palms to heat the water to the perfect temperature and filled it with all sorts of bath potions and salts before – though, admittedly, he'd much rather join in - heading to their room to meditate on their day's findings. Break the seal, not break the seal. Both Yen and Annika had equally sound arguments, shockingly enough.  
  
After he left, Jaskier relaxed into the water with a sigh and pulled out his notebook for the first time that day. Over the course of their trip he’d recorded everything but hadn’t been allowed much time to go back over, add in any missing details.  
  
He flipped it open and nearly dropped the whole thing in the water when he found the title page was littered with a series of strange markings that had been written over so many times the ink was still wet, wearing at the parchment around them.  
  
They were groups of words, certainly, but he wouldn’t go so far as to call them sentences because they were completely nonsensical. And in his _handwriting_ , no less.  
  
Could they be from last night? Geralt _did_ say he’d been writing. Furiously, indeed.  
  
“Okay, Jaskier. Let's see what you were on about. Um…” He ran his finger down the page, muttering to himself. “Un - un _packs_ …nacreous? _Cankerous_? Arcane…”  
  
Getting nowhere, he decided to ignore them for now. But as he slowly flipped through the rest of the book’s pages, he was baffled to find that they were missing large chunks of text.  
  
Upon closer examination, he realized the gaps started around the time they left Yennefer’s manor. And upon even _closer_ examination – he was hunched over the edge of the tub and holding the candle now, as close to the journal as he dared, reading fervently - realized that the missing pieces were, very specifically, only his entries on Casper.  
  
A short conversation from the night Narra came to their aid played back in his head. ‘ _Say, am I in that book_?’  
  
‘ _Of course! Right here…could’ve sworn I…ah, well. I’ll give you a whole page, then._ ’  
  
He turned to it, finding it blank. The other side was filled in completely.  
  
Did he get the page wrong? He rifled through, shaking his head. No. But this was _silly_ , wasn’t it? Why was his stomach tying up in knots like that – it was entirely possible that two pages had gotten stuck together and the one he'd written on had fallen out, or…  
  
He hastily snatched his quill and wrote in Casper’s name, along with a revised entry:  
  
‘ _Casper Koursan – Dear friend, trusted ally. Born in a town near Ismena to two merchants. Attended Oxenfurt. Likes watermelons, pummeling bigots, and hanging out with orphans._ ’  
  
There.  
  
He reached over the tub, placing the instrument back in its pot before drawing back with a soft splash and watching the page intently. Silly. This was silly. Despite that internal mantra, he had to keep his chest out of the water, finding it unbearably tight for reasons he couldn’t explain.  
  
Why Casper? Every other entry in his journal was exactly as he remembered. Well, aside from the title page.  
  
There was Narra, the demon, the village, Aedd Gynvael. But any mention of the mage’s name or involvement was simply…gone.  
  
After several minutes of staring at the ink as it dried, Jaskier sighed.  
  
“Chin up, Jaskier.” He told himself, placing a finger upon the scripted ‘C’ and leaving behind a small droplet of water that made it weep. “Maybe you _are_ getting old.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The door to Casper’s office was open, the lock busted. Inside sat Yen. She was alone, staring intently at the book before her.  
  
What if Annika was wrong? What if removing the seal would give them the answers they needed?  
  
They already knew the contents of the story, the journal. Waiting around like sitting ducks for the demon, its master or some other untold horror to find them…  
  
She needed more. Needed to arm herself with what she could, which in this case was knowledge.  
  
She flicked her wrist and the door creaked shut, the lock fixing itself and sliding into place. She then placed her palm upon the book’s open pages, murmuring a few words.  
  
Within seconds an intricate seal appeared over the mysterious mage’s words, glowing gold and shimmering in the peaceful darkness of the office. She still didn’t recognize it, though could now confirm that it was indeed very, very old magic.  
  
It lit up her face for a moment before sputtering. Then it broke down, sliding off the page in a cascade of tiny sparks that burst as soon as they touched the wood desk beneath.  
  
Quickly, she removed her hand and held her breath, watching for any changes.  
  
All at once, the words started to float lazily off the page and up into the air like smoke on a gentle breeze. She watched as they dematerialized one by one, leaving no trace – physical or magical – behind.  
  
“Well,” she placed her head in her hands, “that was anticlimactic. Annika’s going to have a bloody field day.”  
  
A small consolation that neither of them had been right, in the end. The seal had been binding the words to the page to combat what was starting to look like an enchantment that would otherwise see them erased.  
  
That thought, however, had her straightening back up. “Oh, _shit_.”  
  
Such enchantments weren’t uncommon, of course. She’d seen them used by several of her peers – those who preferred to keep a low profile or wanted to erase some of the more dubious (or embarrassing) things they’d done from history altogether. A fairly common sentiment when you lived as long as they did.  
  
No, if anything she was relieved to find an explanation for why they hadn’t found any mention of this ‘friend’ and whatever he accomplished that night anywhere else. What had her mind racing, had her plump lips curving into a worried frown, was something else entirely.  
  
It was the fact that the words _still_ disappeared after the seal was removed. That meant the enchantment was still active. And for _that_ to be true (because, unlike the seal, it was a glamour that required constant effort to maintain), whoever originally cast it must still be alive. Making them – by her estimation – thousands of years old. More.  
  
No person lived that long. No person _should_ live that long. Impossible, yes, but also unnatural. After all that time, they would no longer think as a human would. No longer _be_ human. By all rights, they would be akin to a…  
  
She stared down at the page, feeling fear, real and paralyzing. If her assumptions were correct - and she reminded herself that they were only that, nothing more yet - she had never in her life gone up against something so ancient.  
  
What was the alternative? Take Ciri and run? Leave Geralt and Jaskier, Casper and Annika, to fight whatever it was on their own?  
  
“Come on, old girl,” she muttered, steeling herself, “it’s not like you to run from a challenge.”  
  
With that, she pulled out a quill, cast a seal of her own upon the book, and started writing everything they knew about their faceless foe thus far.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Jaskier huffed. He was being ridiculous. Paranoid.  
  
“Spending too much time around Geralt,” he grumbled.  
  
He went to close the journal, give his mind a break, when suddenly the edges of Casper’s name started to peel. He jumped back, though his pruny fingers still gripped the edge of the tub in anticipation as the name, along with the rest of his entry, curled elegantly off the parchment.  
  
The words hung in the air a moment before dissolving completely.  
  
“Bloody hell!” He scrubbed his eyes, thinking it might have been a hallucination, or a trick of the light. But when he glanced back down, Casper’s name and short biography were gone. He lowered his voice, casting a furtive glance at the closed door and then back to the empty page. “ _What the fuck_?”  
  
He tried again and got the same result.  
  
Twice more.  
  
After the fourth attempt, Yen’s words from earlier that day popped into his head. ‘ _Why would there be no mention of this anywhere else? It’s as if history itself forgot him._ ’  
  
And the blank spots in the hidden journal entry…the man had been afraid to write his friend’s name. Was it because it disappeared, like Casper’s was now?  
  
No matter how he wrote it, it wouldn’t stick to the page. Even the most vague mention of the mage vanished into thin air, happening faster each time he tried. Would the same happen if he used an anagram – ?  
  
Realization dawned and all the pieces fell into place at once, staggering him. He already _had_. Oh, no.  
  
He cursed, flying out of the bath and hastily pulling a shirt over his sopping-wet head, hopping around as he struggled to pull on his pants. He wasn’t sure what it all meant, not really – only knew he had stumbled upon something vitally important.  
  
“Nonono, shitshit _shit_ \- ”  
  
Geralt. He had to get to Geralt.  
  
He threw the door open, not bothering with shoes or socks and skidding down the hall, slipping and sliding on suds from the bath. His continued chorus of ‘noshitno’ lowered even further to a hushed whisper.  
  
He stopped short at the corner when he heard footsteps, saw a shadow approaching in the torchlight. Their room was there, just there…no. Best not chance it. The long way around it was.  
  
Swiveled on his heel, sprinted haphazardly back towards the washroom, thinking it would be best to go through the dining hall, which had been empty. His heart thumped wildly against his chest and his breathing was shallow, too loud. He tried his best to stifle it.  
  
Casper. Casper was…  
  
‘ _A victory I am not proud to claim_.’  
  
Had he ever said Geralt’s name? Or was it always just ‘the Witcher?’ Jaskier couldn’t remember.  
  
He careened through the pitch-dark dining hall, jumping at every shadow but making it through unscathed. Nearly there, just one more –  
  
At the last turn he crashed directly into someone, looking over his shoulder to make sure he wasn’t being followed.  
  
Painfully slow, he turned to see who it was, though part of him already knew.  
  
There stood Casper, centimeters away and rubbing the spot on his shoulder where they had collided. He smiled when he saw Jaskier, broad and warm – the sight of it almost made him forget his suspicions.  
  
Almost.  
  
“Jaskier!” Casper tilted his head to the side in amusement, noticing the bard was barefoot and soaking wet. “Where are you off to? And where the _hell_ are your shoes?”  
  
“Um…” Jaskier cleared his throat, fidgeting with the untucked hem of his blouse. “You know me, just taking a barefoot stroll. As I do. Why am I wet, you ask?” He hadn’t. “Thought I'd pop out onto the ramparts and...drip dry? I've heard it's good for the uh, humors.”  
  
That earned him a laugh, which he took as a good sign.  
  
“ _Right_. How about I join you? I could use some fresh...”  
  
Those kind brown eyes glanced calmly down at the notebook clutched in Jaskier’s trembling hand, which he immediately tried stashing behind his back as though he was a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar.  
  
“...air. Again? You are persistent.”  
  
Jaskier’s mind was going a mile a minute. Don’t react, he told himself. Play dumb, you fool.  
  
“Persistent? Me? No, never. If anything I’m…I’m _anti_ -persistent.” Not a word. Shit. “What I _mean_ to say is…what are we talking about?”  
  
Terrible effort.  
  
“I think you know.”  
  
Was the jig up? Jaskier couldn’t tell. He wasn’t entirely sure what the jig even was. He kept quiet, looking for an opening to run.  
  
Their room was at the very end of the hall. He was so close. He just had to reach Geralt – Geralt meant safety.  
  
Casper continued. “I can see it in your eyes.”  
  
Yep. Yeah, the jig was most certainly up. Jaskier swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat and pointed an accusing finger at the mage. Make a ruckus, alert Geralt. He said he would be listening, in case...  
  
“You - ”  
  
Against his own volition, his mouth snapped shut and his arm dropped limply to his side, the notebook falling to the floor in a mess of scattered papers.  
  
“I can’t do the whole spiel for you again, Jaskier. Not tonight.” In horror, the bard realized Casper’s pleasant brogue was all but gone. “Besides, it’s not time for that yet. Don’t be scared. I know I took too much before. I’ll try to be more careful.”  
  
Blue eyes wide as saucers, he found he couldn’t move his arms or legs, though they shook violently. He’d been on the receiving end of some pretty nasty spells in his day but this…this felt wrong. Like nothing and everything all at once. The air around them was stagnant, devoid of even the tiniest thrum of magic.  
  
A whimper that had been trapped in his throat managed to escape. “Wh - ?”  
  
“I’m so sorry.” Casper murmured, looking remorseful as he placed two fingers on a terrified Jaskier’s forehead. “ _Forget_.”


	89. Chapter 89

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Tried my hand at some physical descriptions, but I still think it’s more fun to let you fill in the blanks! Besides, I barely even know what I look like. Dark circles personified?
> 
> Onto the fic, I hope updates every monday/occasionally every other monday are ok, my sad clown hours are gonna be starting on tues now so is easier that way :)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last bath is taken! Ikkk I'm sick of this place too, but I wanted to wring out all the fluff and tension before gettin serious. Okok see you next week!

Misty blue eyes remained wide open and fixed on Casper. Like a switch was flipped, when he removed his fingers Jaskier fell to his knees, hands poised delicately upon the ground as if he wasn’t quite sure what to make of it.  
  
Casper brushed his hand off on the front of his shirt, glancing down at the bard and gently nudging him with the tip of a muddied boot. He was unresponsive, staring now at the mage’s knees.  
  
“Up.”  
  
Jaskier did not move and Casper frowned, squatting before him and examining his vacant expression. After a moment he grabbed his chin, jerking his head back so he could study his eyes, which were half-mast and faraway.  
  
“Jaskier.” No response. “Ah, shit. Valefor?”  
  
No sooner had he closed them around the ‘r’ of the demon’s name than his lips suddenly parted once more against his will. He went cross-eyed but otherwise did not flinch as a tiny black snake slithered out of his mouth, making its way onto his shoulder.  
  
_Yes-s-s_?  
  
Casper turned his head to the side and spat on the floor before shooting the snake a look. “You know how I feel about that.”  
  
It playfully flicked his cheek with its tongue. _But it’s so warm, and there’s so much sand to play with._  
  
“The golem is not your plaything.” Brown eyes glanced over Jaskier’s shoulder to the end of the hall, where he could hear the Witcher rhythmically sharpening his blade through the closed door. He had to be quick. “His brain is scrambled.”  
  
_Again_? The snake glanced at the bard, who had started drooling on Casper’s hand. _One would think you’d never done this sort of thing before._  
  
“It's getting harder to control my powers by the day. The hour, even.”  
  
_Because you're running out. Shouldn’t have wasted so much on that plague business._ A serpentine grin. _Should’ve let it take them all._  
  
“That wasn’t an option.” The snake managed to look incredibly sardonic, and Casper shook his head. “I don’t expect you to understand.”  
  
_You need to complete the transaction._  
  
“The door doesn’t open for another day and a half.”  
  
_If you exhaust your supply before then, you -_  
  
“I know what will happen.” A frustrated sigh. “Can you fix it or not?”  
  
_Can’t we just kill him_?  
  
“No, I need him. He makes the Witcher weak.”  
  
_That’s not the real reason, though, is it? A week ago you were singing a different tune. ‘Aim at everything around it!’ You pointed your hand right at _him_. Thanks again, by the way._ The demon placed his tail over his eyes, feigning a distraught swoon. _Such a cruel, cruel master, abusing me so -_  
  
“I said I was sorry. I didn’t think the rift in chaos would effect me, too.”  
  
_So why not kill him now? Leave his mangled body in their bed - ooh, or maybe just his pretty little head! Imagine how weak the Witcher would be after finding his lover’s -_  
  
“The answer is no. Do not bring it up again.”  
  
_Touchy. I'll be adding this to your tab._  
  
Valefor shimmied along Casper’s arm, slithered up Jaskier’s neck, and used his tail to lift a drooping eyelid and peer around inside. After that, he placed his snout against a clammy forehead, closing his eyes.  
  
They reopened as soon as light returned to the bard’s. _His mind can't take much more. He’s going to have headaches._  
  
“I’ll find a way to play that off.”  
  
Casper finally released Jaskier’s chin, settling back on his heels and watching as he slowly blinked and rubbed his eyes like he'd just woken up. He then gathered his notebook, picked himself up off the ground, and shambled back to the washroom.  
  
As he did, Valefor started slithering away.  
  
“Where are you going?”  
  
_Don’t worry about it._  
  
“And the others? Are you keeping them in check?”  
  
_We’ll be there when the time comes._ At Casper’s stern look, he flicked his tongue again and gave a saucy little wriggle. _Loosen up, will you? It’s not every day we get to stretch our legs._  
  
“You don’t have legs.”  
  
_Wings, paws, and claws, then. Toodle-oo_.  
  
After the demon had slunk off into the shadows, Casper remained on the floor. He heard Jaskier disrobe and slip back into the tub with a splash, followed by a shriek and an “oh, _hell_!” when he came to and found himself in frigid water.  
  
He only left when, minutes later, the Witcher grumbled something to himself about making sure ‘the damn bard’ hadn’t fallen asleep and drowned. With that, he stood, released the suppression spell he’d placed on their door, and ambled down the hall.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The next morning, Annika was informed of Yen’s news regarding the book and took it surprisingly well.  
  
“What the _hell_ were you thinking?” She rampaged around Casper’s office as she spoke – he followed closely behind, looking comically distressed, watching her flailing arms threaten to knock his precious antiquities from the shelves. “Do you want to die? Is that it?”  
  
Her hand whacked a crystalline orb and he dove to catch it, casting her a tortured, pleading glance once it was secured. “Annika, _please_ , these are my _things_ \- ”  
  
Yennefer was seated cross-legged on his desk, eating an apple and calmly watching the scene unfold. “I don’t understand why you’re so upset. Thought you’d be happy, or at the very least grateful. I suppose neither of those are in your emotional repertoire.”  
  
“Happy? _Grateful_? You endangered - ”  
  
In the corner, Jaskier sucked in a sharp breath, hand flying up to clutch his skull. Geralt frowned.  
  
“Another?”  
  
The bard nodded, squeezing his eyes shut against the pain and only reopening them when it subsided to a dull throb. Casper – who had gathered all of the most breakable objects in his arms – approached them and quietly asked if he wanted a cup of tea.  
  
“ – and how can you be so sure you didn’t release some other ungodly horror into the world? Need I remind you who here has more experience with demons?”  
  
"A few half-arsed deals _hardly_ make you an expert." Yennefer slammed the half-eaten apple down on the desk and uncrossed her legs. “I've had enough of this. You are an ungrateful slug and I am sick of you questioning my every - ”  
  
Ciri groaned, placing her head in her arms as Casper filled a mug with water, popped in a tiny bundle of herbs, and carefully brought it to a boil.  
  
“ - _slugs_ eat decaying plant matter and are a vital part of our ecosystem. So thanks for the compliment, you two-bit, thrice-cursed - ”  
  
“Here, Jaskier. This should help.”  
  
“Thank you, Casper.”  
  
Jaskier smiled gratefully and accepted the mug, fingers brushing against the mage’s. Immediately, a blurred image flashed in his mind (the dull glow of torchlight, a warbled voice, and his brain, his brain felt seconds from bursting - ) and brought with it another shock of pain. He hissed, dropping the mug – the room fell silent and everyone watched as it crashed to the floor, shattering into a million tiny pieces.  
  
“Bollocks, I’m…” He dropped to his knees, shaking his head - a concerned Casper joined him on the floor, trying to assure him that it was nothing. “I don't know what came over me - ”  
  
Annika placed a hand on her hip. “ _What_ is happening over there?”  
  
"Nightmares kept him up all fucking night. Think they gave him a migraine.” At Casper’s insistence, Geralt hoisted Jaskier back into his seat. “You need to lie down.”  
  
“And miss the show? No, I’m all right, Geralt. Really.”  
  
She squinted at him. “Maybe you're turning into a werewolf. Losing time at night, night _mares_.” And pointed accusingly at the open top of his doublet. “ _Chest hair_. You’ve certainly got enough of that going on.”  
  
“Leave my chest hair alone. It’s done nothing to you.” Jaskier accepted the second mug Casper offered, this time far more carefully, and took a sip of the piping hot liquid. It was pleasant, minty. When he saw Ciri gaping at him, he rolled his eyes. “And has always been there! I – I can’t believe I even have to say this but no, no I am _not_ turning into a werewolf."  
  
“Sounds like something a werewolf would say.” Annika muttered, before looking to Yen. “Look, what’s done is done. Might as well share what you learned with the class.”  
  
“Agreed. Afraid it's nothing good.” She informed them of the enchantment, of her suspicions about their unnamed enemy’s age. “I'm guessing whoever it is has been doing this since…well, whenever they first did it to their friend. Jumping from body to body, for thousands of years. Clever. A new vessel would guarantee the ability to bear the power they receive in exchange. Normally it would eat them alive. If that's the case, we are looking at someone very old and very strong.”  
  
Geralt's brow furrowed. “What would the demon be getting out of this?”  
  
“Freedom to roam for a short time, perhaps? Eat a few children, level a few villages. Since Vrart is on the loose, that's the only logical conclusion.” That was Annika, whose voice had finally lost its razor-sharp edge. “It's always a seemingly small price to pay, compared to your first-born or years off your life...that is, until its devours your whole family before your eyes and the deal renders you unable to lift a finger.”  
  
At that, Casper frowned. "Careless."  
  
The sorceress flipped open her book, thumbing through pages and pages of her own notes. “Yes, careless, but judging by the mayhem they've caused I doubt they'd bat an eye at a couple hundred more deaths." She simply didn't catch the way he flinched. Nobody did, for nobody was looking for it. "If I could only figure out where it first happened...the journal mentioned meeting at the 'heart of the city,' but that doesn’t really narrow it down.”  
  
“ _So-o-o_ , what you’re saying is aside from the fact that they are very, very, very, _very_ old and crusty - ”  
  
“Three very's would have been sufficient, Jaskier. And no, it’s not much. But it’s something. Cirilla, would you mind describing where you went again? I’m not sure if it's relevant, but I'm recording everything and would like to write it down just in case.”  
  
The girl nodded. “It was dark. Scary. Lots of red. It smelled terrible, too. There were ruined buildings all around, and…”  
  
The rest of the morning consisted of much of the same, until the valerian root Casper had put in Jaskier's tea kicked in and he decided to listen to Geralt for once and rest his head in their room.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Though the Witcher remained with him while he fell asleep, he woke groggy and alone with the mid-afternoon sun beating down on his face through the window, searing his cheeks and corneas. He chucked a pillow at it, forgetting it was open and watching, wide-eyed, as it sailed straight through.  
  
When he heard an alarmed shout below he cursed and scrambled out of bed, barreling out the door. After aimlessly wandering the keep for a bit, he found Geralt _and_ Casper in a large armory. At the center sat a circular arena within which they were sparring with dull practice blades. Looked like they’d been at it for awhile, too, as both had worked up quite a sweat.  
  
“Jaskier!” Casper beamed at him and waved, but quickly had to spin back round to block. “I - _oof_ \- got kicked out of my own office for 'thinking too loud.' Feeling better?”  
  
“Thanks to your tea.” He squinted. “This _again_? Can we at least place bets this time?”  
  
They stopped for a breather, long enough to place bets on who would win the next round over a pot of their combined pocket change - which turned out to be fifteen silvers and a shameful amount of lint. When they returned to the arena, Casper offered his hand for the other to shake.  
  
“First one on the ground loses. Fair?”  
  
"Fair."  
  
Jaskier took a seat on a bench and watched as they slowly started circling each other again. They were fairly well-matched – the mage made up for his lack of strength with speed, was surprisingly adept with the blade and, though easily staggered, actually able to meet _some_ of the Witcher’s heavier blows head-on.  
  
He hopped back a few steps, shaking his arm out. “Not pulling any punches, are you?”  
  
Geralt's lips quirked. "Rarely do."  
  
"Not when coin's involved, at least." Jaskier interjected, which was met with a withering look.  
  
Their blades met again, and again, and again. It went on like that for awhile until Casper feinted left and managed to wrap his weapon around Geralt’s, tossing it aside. There was a split second where his eyes and face lit up, wild in the fading afternoon light, and Geralt used it to snatch his sword-wielding wrist before he had time to retract it and twist, forcing him to also drop his blade.  
  
Before the blunted iron weapon even hit the ground, Geralt spun on his heel and used that point of contact and the momentum to lob the mage clean over his shoulder.  
  
“ _Damn_!” From where he’d landed in a sprawling heap, Casper rubbed his wrist, laughing. “Thought I had you.”  
  
“You left yourself open once you thought victory was certain." Geralt helped him stand. "Should never assume anything is certain in battle.”  
  
Casper glanced down to where their hands were once again connected before smiling good-naturedly and pulling his back. “I’ll keep that in mind.”  
  
“Can I have a go?”  
  
Both men turned to Jaskier in surprise. After a moment of cautious consideration, Geralt nodded and went to fetch his sword.  
  
“No.” Blue eyes settled on the mage, who was still brushing himself off. “With him.”  
  
“What?”  
  
Jaskier fumbled with the practice blade he’d grabbed from the wall, watching a strange expression cross Casper’s face. Confusion, maybe? Concern?  
  
Of course, he wasn’t doing it because he had the sudden desire to get bodied to the floor. He found himself craving that feeling from earlier, when he had touched the mage – despite the initial pain it had been like resurfacing after being underwater too long. A breath of fresh air.  
  
If he could just touch him again, confirm something – he wasn’t sure what, only that he needed to.  
  
“It’s fine, Geralt. He’ll go easy on me. Right, Casper?”  
  
Casper reached his arms over his head, stretching out his back before bowing low and doing the same for his hamstrings. “Don’t count on it. Since you’re in a betting mood, if I win you have to help me return all the books we’ve taken out to the library tomorrow evening.”  
  
“As in _manual labor_?”  
  
“Aye.”  
  
“ _Eugh_." He almost sat right back down, but after a moment, exhaled loudly. "Sod it. Fine."  
  
The mage grinned. His white blouse had been undone and was hanging around his waist from where it was still tucked into his trousers, revealing a long torso. He bore no tan lines – the warm color of his skin, with its golden undertones, was seamless, shoulders peppered with the same dusting of freckles that sat upon the bridge of his nose.  
  
For whatever reason, that - coupled with the way his eyes crinkled around his grin - had Jaskier’s mind going back to the similarly brown-eyed, brown-haired, _freckled_ young girl he’d been holding back at the village. A coincidence, surely. Casper was from Temeria, born to two mer –  
  
His musings were interrupted when the mage abruptly straightened and spun towards him. Jaskier fell back a step in surprise, barely blocking the blow in time, the impact sending reverberations up his arm all way to his jaw and teeth.  
  
Casper nimbly backtracked and allowed him a moment to recover. "I'd let you back out, but I could really use the help."  
  
The bard grumbled in response but before he could check with Geralt to see whether or not he had his stance right, Casper was upon him again. He put up another flimsy block but this time the mage didn't relent, instead pressing down harder with the intention of breaking it.  
  
From there, time seemed to slow. His brown eyes were intimidatingly tranquil, examining the face before him as if trying to figure something out. Jaskier's unintentionally flicked down their hands, which were inches apart. It didn't go unnoticed and some sort of recognition seemed to dawn but before Jaskier could think on it further Casper broke through, flinging his weapon across the room.  
  
He then stepped back, letting his sword arm drop to his side. "I'd rather not toss you over my shoulder, so can we just go ahead and assume I've won?"  
  
"N-no, you can toss me, I'm completely tossable - "  
  
Geralt paced over to them, clapping a hand on the bard's shoulder. "No tossing." A smirk. "Library duty it is."  
  
Jaskier fell deep into thought, murmuring a distracted " _can't wait_ " before returning to the bench. He was being paranoid, wasn't he?  
  
_Spending too much time around Geralt_ , he thought, watching as the other two resumed their training. It was a strangely familiar thought, though he couldn't for the life of him place when or where he'd had it.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
That evening, they ate dinner together as a very long-faced group and retired to their rooms shortly after, the familiar feeling of dissatisfaction at uncovering nothing of substance weighing heavily in their guts along with their meals.  
  
“No journal tonight?”  
  
Jaskier sighed, giving his lute a solemn strum. He was sitting with his legs up on the desk, deep in thought. “Maybe later.”  
  
“Bath?”  
  
He peered longingly at the wooden tub, which was steaming pleasantly against the cool, desert-night air that trickled in through their open window, before shaking his head.  
  
“Too small for both of us and you desperately need it.” He cringed. "I saw you munching on that onion earlier. Like an apple. Did you think it was one? And if so, dear gods, why didn't you stop after the first bite?"  
  
"I knew what it was." Geralt checked his breath, shrugged. "I like onions."  
  
"As do I. As an _ingredient_. You know, soups, _stews_...um, consomme? - no, that's just soup...ooh! _Gazpacho_..."  
  
As the Witcher slipped off his pants and prepared to get into the bath, however, Jaskier - who was listing every dish he knew that contained the vegetable on his fingers and had yet to progress past liquids - perked up a little, tilting his chair onto its back two legs so he could get a better look. He then let out a low whistle, fiddling with his lute until it produced a slow and plucky, but playful, melody.  
  
" _My beloved has one hell of an arse_ \- "  
  
Geralt glared at him over his shoulder and he snickered, trying again.  
  
“ _My beloved has got...mighty thighs,  
  
Slays monsters by the dozen,_”  
  
He grinned, strumming and singing faster when the Witcher wrapped a towel about his waist and started stalking towards him.  
  
“ _And when I look into his eyes,  
  
I forget the smell of onion_ \- there, see, I brought it back to the – ahh!” He laughed as Geralt slipped the strap of the lute over his head and swept him off the chair with a growl, slinging him over his shoulder and carting him to the bathtub. “Nono – nonono, Geralt, I’m fully dressed, I’m fully - ”  
  
He was unceremoniously dunked into the warm water but resurfaced seconds later, gasping and spluttering while the Witcher dropped the towel and climbed in after him.  
  
It was cramped and took a little maneuvering, the wood creaking beneath both of their weight, but once they were situated it was actually quite nice. The steam – which carried the dull scent of herbs, lavender and calendula – lazily collected around them.  
  
“ - _dressed_.” They sat facing each other, a wicked, triumphant smirk dancing across Geralt’s lips. Jaskier shook his sopping bangs from his eyes and lifted his arm out of the water, displaying an equally soaked, dripping sleeve. “I hope you’re pleased with yourself.”  
  
“Very.”  
  
“Yeah, yeah.” He peeled the shirt off, throwing it over. It landed with a heavy _splat_ and was followed shortly by his pants. “You’re lucky that was only my fourth favorite blouse.”  
  
Geralt’s smirk softened into an expression of contentment and he closed his eyes, settling back, arms resting on the sides of the tub. “Tell me what has you so preoccupied.”  
  
“Am I that obvious?”  
  
“Mhm.” He cracked open a golden eye, made liquid by the pleasant glow of the candles around them. “You never turn down a bath.” A pause, his voice quieting a little as if he resented the fact that he'd noticed. "And you forgot your favorite onion dish."  
  
"Really? Which one is that?"  
  
"Ratatouille."  
  
"Oh, _yes_! Remember when we had it at that inn, after you fought the koshchey? We should go back. For the food, of course. Not the...hopefully still-dead crab-monster. Where was it, again? Somewhere outside - "  
  
"Focus, Jaskier."  
  
"Right." Geralt's eye closed again and Jaskier sighed, scooting until his shoulders were submerged. Geralt’s legs were on either side of his waist, his own in the middle, feet tucked under the mighty thighs he’d just been singing of. “I can’t stop thinking back to those nightmares.”  
  
“Mm.”  
  
“I mean, here we are being hunted by a _demon_ and what plagues me at night is having to perform a jig in front of my parents with no trousers on?” The eye opened once more, shooting him a questioning look, and he shook his head. “Don’t ask why. The why is irrelevant, Geralt. But - but that’s just the _thing_! They were completely irrelevant. All of them.”  
  
“What kind of jig?”  
  
“A _hop_ jig.” Jaskier shivered. “Brutal. But are you listening? It was like they weren’t mine at all. I can’t help but feel…I don’t know. Do you think someone's messing with me?”  
  
Geralt fully opened his eyes, then, and studied the troubled face before him. Even though Jaskier hadn’t lost time again and he hadn’t sensed anything suspicious, that morning – after the nightmares - they consulted the sorceress. And as before, she found nothing. Frustrating not to know what was wrong, but she had pulled Geralt aside after and told him that sometimes situations like these had the simplest of answers.  
  
“I think you’ve been under a lot of stress lately.” he mused, slipping a hand under the water and gently pulling out one of Jaskier’s legs – the one that had been broken. Without much thought, he idly started massaging it, starting at the ankle and drawing long, sure strokes up and down the calf with his palm. “But if it makes you feel better I'll stay up. Watch over you.”  
  
“No, you barely slept last night and I don’t want - _ohh_ , that’s nice. That’s very nice.” A happy sigh as Geralt’s warm, broad fingers diligently worked out all the little kinks. “As I was saying, I…gods, what was I saying?”  
  
“You were telling me more about that dream.”  
  
“Ah. So there I was, onstage - trouser-less, terrified – and the only two people sitting in the stands were my dear mum and – hey!” At Geralt’s impish grin he halfheartedly smacked the hand that was so wonderfully soothing his aches from the day. “Awful, that’s what you are. Just awful.”  
  
They continued solving the world’s problems into the small hours of the night, with Geralt warming the water every-so-often as needed. Eventually, when Jaskier started having trouble keeping his eyes open, they moved to the bed.  
  
Too tired to record the day in his journal, Jaskier wrapped himself in blankets – it was chilly out and the air bit at his fingers, toes and nose – and curled up against the comforting, steady heat of Geralt’s side. A large arm wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him closer.  
  
As promised, Geralt stayed up all through the night. He spent that time looking thoughtfully out the window and watching the moon, which would be full tomorrow. That night, it was large and colorful, a deep maroon with a burnt-orange halo, obscured by amber clouds.  
  
A bloody moon was a sign of bad tidings – tumultuous weather, failed crops, general misfortune - if you believed in such things.  
  
He did not. 


	90. Chapter 90

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm actually having fun with Casper now, tbh at the beginning waay way back at Yen's I didn't think he'd turn out to be an interesting villain to write and had a backup plan just in case but he came thru! Proud dad claps for the literal bad guy!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry for typos! idk why it didn't save my changes before posting gUH "aresn't" will haunt me for days

When they journeyed to the dining hall to break their fast the next morning, Jaskier waited until Geralt left to meet Yen at the aviary to 'take care of something' before pulling Annika aside, speaking to her in a low voice.  
  
“Don’t tell Geralt.”  
  
“Love that for you.” She peered around the cafeteria, tone instinctively matching his. "But why are we whispering? He's not even here.”  
  
He hastily pulled out his notebook, casting nervous glances over his shoulder that had her brow furrowing in concern. He flipped to the title page, pointing urgently at the strange words that littered it, the ink bleeding and making them practically illegible.  
  
“Look. It’s my handwriting, but I don’t remember writing it.”  
  
She took the notebook, examining the page carefully. “Okay. And we’re not telling Geralt about your creepy doodles…why, exactly?”  
  
“I’d rather not worry him. You know, if it turns out to be nothing…it’s utter nonsense, right? Gods, I must be losing my mind.” A wry, somewhat nervous laugh. “Seems you evacuated just in time.”  
  
“Or...before it started getting interesting.” She pointed to one of the clusters. “These aren’t nonsense, Jaskier. They're anagrams. Have to be…see? The letters in each group are the exact same, just…jumbled. Well, a few of them have t’s, and u’s…d’s…extra words, maybe, but there are definite commonalities.”  
  
“But when did I write them? And why? And _why_ can’t I remember?”  
  
She gnawed on her lower lip a moment, studying his eyes. They were somewhat crazed, a little bloodshot. “You’ve been losing time at night, too.”  
  
“Only once - ”  
  
“And having nightmares.”  
  
“But they were _ridiculous_. I won’t go into detail but suffice to say they were completed unrelated to - ”  
  
“No. Someone’s fucking with your head. Magically.” Narrowed green eyes peered suspiciously over his shoulder at the bustling hall. “Someone here.” Before he could turn his head she roughly grabbed his chin and redirected his gaze right back to her. “Close your mouth, will you? Do you want to give us away? For someone who went to bard college you are a terrible actor.”  
  
“I don’t even know where to begin with that one. Bard - _bard_ college? I know you grew up in a cave but are you _honestly_ telling me you think people just go off to - ”  
  
“No, don’t start. Do not start with me.” When he opened his mouth to speak again she shoved a grubby finger up to his lips. “I do not care. Anyway, it’s _got_ to be someone here. Someone watching your every move. Because it’s only happening at night, it seems, and for that they’d have to be close enough to keep an eye on you.”  
  
He frowned against her finger. “Why me?”  
  
“Not sure. Solving the anagrams might help us figure that out. It could be that you’re getting too close for comfort, maybe finding something out that you shouldn’t…I thought that old fart was suspicious.”  
  
“Ebbos?” Jaskier crinkled his nose. “The croissant hoarder? Who frequently has food particles trapped in his adorable mustache?”  
  
“Yes.” She shivered. “Nobody’s that jovial. It must be an act.”  
  
“Right. It’s _lovely_ that you’re so concerned - ”  
  
“I’m not concerned.”  
  
“… _right_. Whatever this is, then. Lovely. But I just…don’t trust myself, at the moment.” He glanced down at the notebook in her hands. “Look it over. If you find something, great. If not...I'll need you to be honest with me. Okay?”  
  
At that, she lost the defensive tone of her voice, gave a solemn nod, and pocketed it.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The rest of the day went by painfully slow, until it came time for Jaskier to find Casper, hold up his end of the bargain and help return the books to their rightful place in the library. They had exhausted all of Aedd Gynvael's resources and found very little of use, irritatingly enough. Annika had holed herself up in her room, refusing visitors, and the rest of them - aside from Casper, who'd said he had a few stray books to gather - hung out in the office.  
  
It felt like the hours were taking forever to tick by, as if they were all waiting for something with bated breath. For those masked mercenaries - or fanatical freaks, as Narra had so lovingly called them - to breach the keep's high walls in the dead of night? For the demon to rear its ugly, scaly head once more?  
  
Waiting was a game Geralt did not enjoy, but there were no other alternatives. Traveling to Kaer Morhen was discussed but considering how dangerous the roads had been on their way to their current location, they decided not to chance it.  
  
Jaskier seemed to be doing better, having slept through the night with Geralt's arms wrapped about him like a cocoon, but when he went to find the library the Witcher stood and followed him out all the same.  
  
Once they'd reached the bottom of the staircase, where several robed people were rushing by, Jaskier turned to inform the other man that he didn't need an escort when large hands promptly grabbed his waist and guided him away from the evening crowd and back towards the wall.  
  
"Ger - _mmf_ \- "  
  
He was interrupted by the other's lips pressing urgently against his own and after a moment of spluttering he allowed himself to melt into the kiss. Geralt's hold tightened, thumbs digging into his hipbones and pressing him further into stone.  
  
After standing there like that for quite some time, tonsil diving and not really caring who saw, the tickle of Geralt's stubble on his cheek brought Jaskier back down to earth and he drew away, breathless.  
  
“What the hell was that for?”  
  
“Nothing.”  
  
“Not a complaint, mind you.” Kiss-swollen lips a pleasant pink and eyes sparkling with amusement, he peered over Geralt’s shoulder at the gawking onlookers. “And I’m all for displays of affection, public or otherwise, but I think that one’s enjoying the show a little _too_ much.”  
  
Hands now on the wall on either side of Jaskier’s head, Geralt shot a look at the young man in question who whimpered and scurried off, nearly dropping the important-looking bones in his arms as he did.  
  
“Actually,” the words came before Geralt gave them permission and he glanced back down at the bright, flushed face beneath his own, “it wasn't nothing. I have something important to tell you.”  
  
Jaskier impatiently cocked his head when the Witcher paused. “ _Well_? The suspense is killing me.”  
  
“You were right.”  
  
“Naturally. About what?”  
  
“That night, before Vrart attacked. You were right. We should have somewhere to se - ”  
  
“Jaskier! There you are!”  
  
Casper rounded the corner just in time, drawing a groan from Geralt, who removed his hands from the wall as the bard waved and gave the mage the universal symbol for ‘hold your fucking horses, pal.’  
  
“Somewhere to what, Geralt?”  
  
“Later. When we’re alone.” He glanced at Casper, who had a ridiculous amount of books in his arms and was pulling a cart filled with countless more. “That's not 'a few.' That's a whole fucking library.”  
  
“No, Geralt, I want to hear what you - ”  
  
Just then, one of Casper's coworkers slammed into his shoulder, knocking all the books to the floor. He cursed and dropped to his knees, started gathering them back up. Jaskier smiled apologetically at Geralt before planting a small kiss on the corner of his mouth.  
  
“Later, then.”  
  
“Mm. Try not to die of boredom.”  
  
"If I'm lucky, an avalanche of books will take me first."  
  
He snorted, fondly watching Jaskier hurry to Casper’s side, helping him gather up all the spare papers and books. His news about the villa with the bridge and the orchard – which he had secretly asked Yen to look into and finalized the purchase of that morning (for a _suspiciously_ low price) - could wait, he supposed.  
  
Probably better to tell the bard once he had a better idea of what exactly the previous owner had meant by ‘reoccurring pest problems,’ anyway.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
A few hours later found Jaskier and Casper still toiling away in the library. To say it was large was an understatement. It spanned several stories of the keep and was all gold and beige and white, with ceiling-high rows of fully-stocked shelves. There were tables lit by candles, cozy nooks with plush chairs to read in, and gold sconces lining the walls that gave the whole place a warm, comforting glow.  
  
They were the only two in there, with Jaskier handing books up to Casper, who was on a wheeled wooden ladder to reach the topmost shelf.  
  
It was all very droll but they were getting it done, chatting the hours and worktime away. With nothing else to focus on, Jaskier started to notice how Casper was trying very carefully not to touch him. When he’d pass a book up, the mage would gingerly grab its edge – even at the risk of dropping it, which he did once or twice and apologized, calling himself clumsy – and if it wasn’t the right section, he’d pass it back just as cautiously.  
  
It spurred his curiosity. He hadn’t forgotten the strange burst of clarity from the day before, that had come when he’d touched Casper and gone as soon as he’d stopped. And, to some extent, the other man seemed _aware_ of the effect touching had on him.  
  
He didn’t act on it until the very end, knowing that if nothing came of what he was about to do things would be very awkward between them for a time. When he passed the last book up, watching Casper’s fingers reach for it, he used his other hand to grab them.  
  
Everything after that was a whirlwind. The book fell. Casper jolted in surprise, arm curling around the ladder to stabilize himself, and tried to retract but Jaskier did not let go. At the same time, images started flooding his mind and his grip on the hand within his own tightened when pain shortly followed.  
  
Casper. Casper standing before him. Placing hands on him, _hurting_ him –  
  
Vrart was there, too, but he was different. Smaller. Scalier. Still horrifying. They spoke casually as if discussing the weather while his brain slowly fizzled and popped and everything _hurt_ but he couldn’t scream, couldn’t get his lips to move, couldn’t feel anything –  
  
And his journal.  
  
Casper was their faceless enemy. He –  
  
The mage tore his hand free, fumbling to remain on the ladder as Jaskier swayed and staggered back, catching himself on the back of a chair. His other hand came up to hold his head, which throbbed but in a very _right_ way, like everything was back where it should be –  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
Casper spoke carefully, brown eyes wide as he silently examined the inscrutable expression on the other’s face. He slowly climbed down but stopped on the bottom rung when the bard flinched.  
  
“Jask - ”  
  
“ _You_.” Blue eyes, also wide, now searched Casper’s face in return. He had forced himself upright, the pain ebbing away slowly, bringing with it raw fear and the fresh sting of betrayal. But no. He had to play dumb, didn’t he? Had to get out, find Geralt…just like the night before, when he had bumped into Casper on his way…and the night before _that_ , when he'd been idly reading his journal while hunting for snacks in the pantry. “You…looked like you were about to fall.”  
  
Casper laughed, placing his feet on solid ground one at a time and not missing the way Jaskier started nervously edging back. “Did I?”  
  
“Yes, and…” Jaskier glanced awkwardly down at the single book on the ground between them. “Y-you can finish up here, right? I’m just gonna pop over to see how Geralt’s doing. He gets, uh…separation anxiety, when we’re apart for too long.” A bold-faced lie. “He starts pining, gets all mopey and - ”  
  
“You can stop. I know that you know.”  
  
At that, Jaskier tittered nervously, now very obviously backing away until he bumped into the table where they had taken all their breaks and talked of love and life and whatever else. “You must be mistaken. I know nothing. This head? Totally empty. Not a thought - ”  
  
The mage gave him a knowing look before raising his hand palm-up to his lips and blowing. Every candle, every sconce, every source of light in the place was immediately snuffed out, leaving them both in the dark.  
  
Jaskier shrieked, shoving the chair at Casper, whose outline he could just barely see, before turning tail and running. In the completely wrong direction, of course, towards the back of the library.  
  
Everything went silent, save for the sound of his panicked breaths and the erratic thumping of his heart that he willed to be still. Well, not too still.  
  
The door. It was there. It was _open_. Though the place was cavernous, blanketed in stifling darkness and void of even the moon’s cool glow, he could see the light in the hall like a beacon.  
  
He just had to get there. He had ended up behind a bookcase, had lost sight of Casper and it was so, so hard to see anything but if he sprinted he could make it, surely. Just book it, don’t look back, swing blindly with the sad-looking dagger Geralt forced you to carry everywhere if you see anything but no matter what, _don’t stop running_.  
  
Sucking in a shaky breath, he reaffirmed his hold on the dagger and took off. Nearly made it, too, and without knocking anything over and making a ruckus on the way.  
  
But just as he started mentally patting himself on the back, just as soon as the tip of his boot crossed the threshold between light and dark, something snatched the collar of his doublet and yanked him back with such force he choked loudly, hand flying up to claw at his throat as he was flung back into the shadows like a sack of potatoes.  
  
He gathered himself quickly, remaining low and crawling under the table, bumping his head and cursing hoarsely as he fumbled with the knife in his clammy hand. Casper was there, though he could see only his boots as he slowly closed the door with a soft _click_.  
  
“Come out, Jaskier.” He padded over to the table, passing his hand over the congregation of candles he’d put out and igniting a few. “I’m not going to hurt you.”  
  
The table was long and wide enough that Casper would have to go around to reach Jaskier if he angled himself right and, by the time he did, give Jaskier time to shuffle back out of reach. A somewhat childish game of cat and mouse that, if he survived, he vowed to speak of to no one. If anyone asked, he valiantly faced his foe and did _not_ cower.  
  
“You nearly snapped my _neck_.” He croaked, still massaging the spot where the fabric of his collar left a reddening burn. “So no, not buying it.”  
  
“Don’t be dramatic.” Casper placed his hands on the edge of the table and peeked underneath, smiling face beaming at Jaskier and making him yelp and scooch back, brandishing his dagger. “Really?”  
  
“Yes, really.”  
  
Blue eyes slid nervously left and right, though never leaving the face looming in front of him for long. If he kept Casper talking he might be able to devise a plan. The door was locked now, that much was clear, but one of the large windows in the back was open.  
  
He wasn’t sure how steep the drop would be but they were fairly high up…if it connected to the ramparts, then _maybe_ he’d be able to make a run for it -  
  
“You’re going to make me come under there after you, aren’t you?”  
  
Jaskier snapped to attention, eyes widening. He hadn't thought of that. "Don't, I’ve - I've got a - ” his trembling hands dropped the blade and he cursed, grabbing it and wielding it with a whimper – he _had_ seen the man best Geralt, after all, “a _pointy thing_ , and contrary to the sounds I’m making I am not afraid to use it.”  
  
Casper chuckled again before removing his hands from the table and ducking low, drawing another squeal from the bard, who lurched up, banged his head once more, cursed again and started scrambling to evacuate.  
  
A hand grabbed his bad ankle and he swung, squeezing his eyes shut and cringing when he felt it hit home somewhere on the mage’s body. It was surprisingly dense – not at all like the precious few other human bodies he had the pleasure of _stabbing_ – almost like one of Kaer Morhen’s sand-filled training dummies but he kept pushing, gritting his teeth and trying to kick his leg free.  
  
He managed it and forced his eyes open, finding Casper before him on hands and knees, head tilted curiously to the side.  
  
He was looking down at the knife buried in his chest, right where his heart would be, as if it was nothing more than the bite of a mosquito.  
  
Nope, that wasn’t good. Jaskier had seen Geralt tangle with enough alps, bruxae and other vampires to know how very _not_ good that was.  
  
There was blood, too. Lots of blood. He hissed as the wound spurted and some of it spilled onto his knuckles but before he could draw back Casper’s hand latched onto his own and guided the dagger further in, all the way to its hilt.  
  
Not even a wince.  
  
“It’s all right.” Casper’s smile broadened as he gave the weapon and Jaskier’s hand a little twist. He murmured something and suddenly all that blood and gore started turning into sand, forming small piles in the space between them. “It’s not real. See?”  
  
“What the _fuck_ \- what _are_ you?”  
  
With a sigh, he finally let go and Jaskier reeled back, all the way back until he was out from under the table, face white as a sheet. “That’s a loaded question – ”  
  
“ – bollocks, bollocks, _bollocks_ , _boll_ \- ”  
  
Casper stood as well, plucking the knife from his chest and tossing it over his shoulder. The table was the only thing standing between them.  
  
“I’m still me. I’m just not here, in the technical sense.”  
  
“ – _ocks_ – what does that even _mean_?”  
  
“My real body is...elsewhere, for safekeeping. This is a golem. Nothing more than an enchanted pile of sand inhabited by my consciousness.” He raised a hand – the one Jaskier had _bandaged_ just a few nights ago and those burns, they had looked so real. Its fingers also turned into sand and scattered gently when he blew on them before reforming moments later. “Clever trick, isn’t it?”  
  
“ _No_ , it’s a bad trick, it is a _terrifying_ – Geralt!" Their room wasn't that far, and surely the Witcher was keeping an ear out for him. "Geralt, you bastard, get off your arse and - ”  
  
“He can’t hear you.”  
  
“Am I supposed to just take your _word_ for it? I thought you were my - _our_ friend and - and you turned out to be a - to be sand! Evil, _evil_ sand.”  
  
“But I am your friend.” Casper took a step around the table towards him that he matched with a step in the other direction. “Everything I told you was true.”  
  
“Your real name is Casper Koursan?”  
  
“Yes.”  
  
"And that's your real face?"  
  
"A variation of it. I like to change things up. You can't expect me to wear the same face for several millennia."  
  
“And you were _really_ born in Temeria?”  
  
“Okay, you got me there. A necessary lie, to protect my home and my people.”  
  
“Protect them from what? Me? Worried I'll go over there and _sing_ at them?”  
  
“It's far more complicated than that.”  
  
Realization dawned suddenly and Jaskier gasped, pointing a finger but quickly retracting it to avoid getting grabbed again. “Your dear friend, the one you told us about…he was the man who wrote the journal entry, wasn’t he? And your tattoo - the _sword_ \- ”  
  
“ - misericorde. Not a sword, but a dagger. Often used to mercy kill wounded knights…on my back, of course, to remind myself of what I had to do to get where I am.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? How cliché can you get?” Rage was curling in his belly, momentarily dwarfing the fear. “And what will your tattoo be for Geralt - a wolf? Perhaps you should put it on your arse to remind yourself of what you are.”  
  
Casper snorted. “I deserve that.” Then peered through the open window, which Jaskier had completely forgotten about in his anger. “Annika is only just figuring it out. There’s time for us to sit and chat, if you’d like. I know you have a lot of questions. You always do.”  
  
“No, thank - ”  
  
He waved a hand and the chair that Jaskier had knocked over in his haste suddenly righted itself and slammed into the backs of his knees, forcing him to sit. When he tried to move he found he couldn’t, as though tethered by invisible cords. Casper took a seat as well, smiling serenely at him from across the table.  
  
“I insist.”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
It was getting late. Geralt was seated at the desk in their room, frowning at the list of problems that came with the deed to the villa.  
  
Along with various infestations – which he was starting to suspect were referencing monsters rather than pests - it boasted casks of undrinkable wine, an orchard that hadn’t been tended to in at least three decades, a crumbling bridge, a massive hole in the roof, and a caved-in cellar that likely still reeked of kikimore guts.  
  
As he silently calculated how much repairs would cost and how much he’d be able to fix on his own, the door to their bedroom suddenly burst open and Annika barged in, face gleaming with sweat, hair in absolute disarray. It looked like she’d just run a mile.  
  
“Where’s Jaskier?”  
  
“Putting books away in the library with Casper.” He squinted. “Though I sincerely doubt the lazy arse is helping much.”  
  
“With Casper? _Shit_.” Her hand came up to run through her wild hair, tangling it further, and she started to pace back and forth in front of him. “Not good, not good, _not good_.”  
  
“What is this?” He gestured to her frantic motions – calming her when she got overworked like that was usually Jaskier’s job, wasn’t really Geralt's forte. “What are you doing?”  
  
“Um…remember the transcendent, god-like, old-as-shit being Yennefer said might be after you?”  
  
“What about it?”  
  
“Funny thing is – and _before_ you go getting your leather breeches in a bunch, I need you to promise to keep a clear - ”  
  
“Get to the fucking point, Annika.”  
  
“It’s Casper.”  
  
“ _What_?”  
  
She pulled out Jaskier’s notebook, forgetting her promise and showing him the anagrams, which she had solved. A few were just Casper’s full name, while others threw words like ‘don’t trust’ and ‘bad’ and ‘total arse’ into the mix, which was why it had been so hard for her to pin down the mage’s name.  
  
It wasn’t until she did and the name immediately vanished off the page that she put things together. When she grabbed a quill and did a quick practice run for Geralt he wordlessly shoved her aside, grabbed his sword, and bolted out the room towards the library.  
  
She hustled to keep up, shaking her head. “See? This is exactly what I was talking about. Breeches? Bunched.” He ignored her, and she continued. “I’ll never understand that. You meditate – what? Ten hours a day? Went to…well, if Jaskier went to bard college I’m assuming you went to Witcher schoo - ”  
  
“That's not how the world works." He didn't mention the fact that he had, indeed, gone to 'Witcher school.' "Now stop talking.”  
  
“What I mean is you’re annoyingly calm in any sort of crisis but the second _he’s_ thrown into the mix you lose all sense of - ”  
  
He halted just long enough to glare at her. “I can’t lose him. Not like this. If you’re not going to help, leave.”  
  
“Of course I’m going to help.” She sighed, and they resumed their hasty journey. Though it _was_ late, the halls were still suspiciously empty. “I’m only saying we need to be careful. He’s clearly planned this out perfectly. Not to mention the fucking demon at his beck and call. And for all we know we’re walking you straight into a trap - ”  
  
“Don’t care. Jaskier’s safety is the priority.”  
  
"And how do you expect to keep him safe with someone else inhabiting your precious body - "  
  
He heard footsteps and the sound of a struggle up ahead and quickly placed an arm across Annika’s chest to stop and quiet her. They both peeked around the corner and watched as a group of torch-wielding figures stormed by, dragging along several archeologists that had been bound and gagged.  
  
“The mercenaries. I recognize a few from the jungle.” Geralt shook his head, only turning the corner once they had passed, Annika following closely at his heels. Needless to say, his mind was racing, filled with thoughts of all the creative ways in which he would punish the duplicitous mage. The lies, the deceit…he had played them like a fucking fiddle and Geralt had let him. “ _Bastard_. What a fucking shit show.”  
  
They came upon the library door without incident but found it closed, locked from the inside. Geralt started breaking it down with well-placed kicks where the lock was mounted, near the keyhole. Occasionally he stopped to listen, to try getting a sense of what was going on inside.  
  
Not a sound to clue him in. Not a whiff of the bard or the mage – or whatever he was, the slippery fucker - anywhere. Using his boot as a battering ram he continued his vicious assault until the wood started to splinter and finally, the door gave.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Casper’s voice, even without the accent, was honeyed, rich and familiar, like warm cider by a hearth. And his eyes, like cinnamon, were equally warm. Eyes Jaskier trusted.  
  
To have someone he considered a friend sit across the table from him, puffing on a pipe and casually discussing how he planned to kill his lover, in that same voice with those same eyes was by far the cruelest of all the mage’s tricks.  
  
“Why are you doing this?”  
  
“I guess there’s no harm in telling you now. I’ll be erasing your memory after all this is over, anyhow.” Casper reclined in his seat, looking thoughtful. “I was born in a beautiful city, thousands of years ago. We were advanced. More so than any of the other major cities, who were still shitting in the streets and bathing once a decade.”  
  
Despite the dire situation, Jaskier pulled a face. “Ew.”  
  
“But we were peaceful. A city of scholars, sorcerers, scientists. Gentle folk who had much to offer the world but as a result, our defenses were weak. Isolated as we were, we saw no need for them.”  
  
“Let me guess – some big bad country with an army came and leveled the place?”  
  
“No.” Casper broke eye contact. “I did.”  
  
“What? How?”  
  
“The night you read about in the journal. The first deal I ever made…sacrificing my friend’s body, taking his power and gaining untold amounts of it, gaining a longer life…like Annika said yesterday, the price seemed insignificant. One night on earth for Valefor and - ” When Jaskier tensed at the use of the cursed name, Casper waved a lofty hand. “He only comes when he pleases and he’s a little peeved that he's not allowed to eat you. Anyway, one night on earth for him and his cohorts. No sneaky clauses, no pesky stipulations. Just one night. How bad could it be?”  
  
“Um, _bad_? Because they did what demons do - ate your family? Your friends?”  
  
“Worse. Destroyed the city, which had been built around the portal I used to strike and complete the deal. Killed everyone while I watched. Well, almost everyone. I managed to rescue a small crowd who’d sought refuge in a mausoleum. I whisked them away, made someplace new and helped them rebuild - ”  
  
“Hang on – someplace new...the village? With the – the orphan girl that looks just like you? You...created it." A pause. "You’re telling me she's _also_ ancient?”  
  
Casper snorted. “No, no. Those I rescued are long dead. Natural causes, old age. That girl and the rest of the village’s people are their descendants…actually, her great-great-great – uh, and so on - grandfather was my second cousin. Anyway, after a few generations I eventually had to take a more backseat role in their development as my magical interference had the unintended side effect of…well, worship. They even carved a statue of me while I was wearing my friend’s face.”  
  
“Ugh.” Jaskier went to massage his temples, remembered he was currently incapacitated. “This is all very creepy. And giving me a massive headache. Where was this city and why haven’t I heard of it? Even if it was decimated there would still be ruins, or something.”  
  
Casper glanced down at his feet, puffing his cheeks out as he silently measured something.  
  
“This would have been…the town square, I think. My second act, after saving whoever I could, was to destroy all evidence of what happened. At the time, nobody else – that I knew of – had dabbled with demons and I thought the best way to keep history from repeating itself was to hide that knowledge away where I knew it would be safe.” He tapped his skull with a finger. “Up here. Well, sort of. It’s just a lot sand banging around right now but you get the idea. Of course I couldn't destroy the door, and as soon the Brotherhood was conceived they caught wind of its magical energy and built this monstrosity right over the remains of my brethren.”  
  
“And why Geralt?”  
  
“Simply put, he’s strong. Not many bodies can withstand the power bestowed by a demon. Nearly destroyed my friend’s. A veteran Witcher like him, however, has all the right resistances and immunities. You have to understand, I’ve been working tirelessly to tailor a deal that will make sure what happened to my people does not happen again. It will be better this time. Geralt will be giving his body to - ”  
  
“Are we speaking of the same Witcher? Because I know for a fact he won’t be giving you _anything_ any time soon.”  
  
“Not willingly, no. I just need to get him to the right place at the right time and things will work themselves out.” Casper smiled. “When you’ve lived as long as I, you start to see things differently. Tell me something - you see me as evil, yes?”  
  
Jaskier jerked again, constantly trying to find a slip in his invisible bonds, and nearly toppled the chair. After a moment, he huffed in irritation. “Do you really need me to answer that?”  
  
“No. Of course you do. I would have, too, a couple thousand years ago. But I’m not evil. I’m not good, either. I simply am - ”  
  
“You simply _are_ a backstabbing prick.”  
  
“ – and who better to wield this power than someone who sees the world through neutral eyes? Forget the village for a moment. In the past, I’ve stopped wars with a flick of the wrist. I’ve changed the tides of history, all from the sidelines. When a king gets too powerful I - ”  
  
“Gods, will you get over yourself?” Jaskier groaned loudly, throwing his head back against the chair. “What you’re describing is just evil with extra steps. It doesn’t matter what you do with the power - you’re stealing it, stealing a body, a _life_.”  
  
“A sacrifice. One I don’t take lightly. I don’t expect you to understand, but I’m glad we got to have this chat.” He looked over his shoulder at the door, ears tickled by the faint sound of boots thudding frantically down the hall. “Time’s up, I’m afraid.”  
  
“For what? If you’re not going to kill me, what part do I play in all this?”  
  
"Hmm. Part, part, part." Casper smirked, blowing out a ring of cool smoke that traveled all the way to Jaskier's face, making his cheeks tingle. "Comedic relief...jester?"  
  
"Fuck off."  
  
"I kid, I kid." With a sigh, he uncrossed his legs and a strange-looking portal sprang up behind him. "Tonight you'll get to play damsel in distress."  
  
Before Jaskier could open his mouth, could get a single word out, the mage snapped and the world around him was lost to darkness.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The library was empty, lit by a single low-burning candle.  
  
Geralt had searched every corner but stormed back to the center table where Annika was reading something, throwing the chairs that hadn't been knocked over aside on his way.  
  
"Find anything?"  
  
Wordlessly, her face horribly pale, she handed him a small slip of parchment.  
  
Upon it, in neat handwriting, was only his name, a time, and a place. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt, serious as a heart attack: it reads "deawest gewawt of wivia~ find us at da big doow when da twewfth beww wings uwu~ ;) xoxo wove, caspew"
> 
> annika: dear gods...a monster, through and through
> 
> yep that's canon no going back now xoxo wove, pukingfwowews


	91. Chapter 91

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone's been singing creepy opera tunes in the piss-soaked alley below my window til like 3am again sjfkds kill me
> 
> This chapter is SOOOO CHAOTIC I'm sorry! I've been really scatterbrained lately, whether it's from finals or the off-brand phantom of the opera plaguing me idk, but I hope it at least makes a little sense lmfao

The dig site – or rather, the deep scar left in the earth and sand by the insatiable curiosity of the Brotherhood - was massive and square. It had levels, six in total, that were evenly spaced apart and connected vertically by a series of rope-and-wood ladders. Each level had a station, and each station was equipped with a multitude of tools – Annika stole one, an iron pickaxe, on their way down and secured it in the belt around the waist of her plain white dress.  
  
At the center of the bottom level stood the gargantuan stone door and frame they had seen from the ramparts a few days ago. It was so tall that it rose above even the highest point of the site. There were two large stone fixtures on either side of it - standing torches - that had been lit, their flames an eerie blue but thankfully not bright enough to light the whole place and give away their position.  
  
As Geralt and Annika carefully, quietly climbed down the ladders and drew closer and closer to the bottom, the voices below became clearer. Jaskier’s brought the Witcher relief and no small amount of amusement when he recognized his tone and realized he was not only alive and well but mid-argument. Casper’s, on the other hand, spoiled that with rage.  
  
It seemed they were alone and during the lulls in their heated conversation, the mage was working on perfecting some sort of incantation, speaking in a guttural language Geralt did not recognize.  
  
“I need you to say it.”  
  
“I’m not going to say it, Jaskier. We can agree to disagree.”  
  
“Maybe you can, but I can't. Come on, say it. Just once.” Geralt didn’t need to see the bard to know the exact expression on his face, that impish, annoying look he adopted when he was confident he was right. “Say ‘hi, I’m Casper, and I’m an evil mastermind.’”  
  
“I'm not saying that.”  
  
“Why not?"  
  
"Because I don't see it that way."  
  
" _How_? Look at yourself - look at what you're doing. Using me to bait Geralt,” Jaskier pointedly raised his voice, unnecessarily emphasizing certain words (did he somehow know they were there?) and Geralt paused on the ladder, “so you can open your ridiculously oversized _portal to the demonic realm_ , lure him in, and _steal his body_. That's evil, plain and simple."  
  
"Like I said, there is nothing plain _or_ simple about good and evil. It's all subjective."  
  
"No, no it's really not. Demons? Evil. Murder? Evil. Manipulating someone - someone with _major_ pre-existing trust issues, I might add - into trusting you only to betray him days later? Evil, evil, _evil_."  
  
Casper had the good sense to sound remorseful. "I take no pride in that. Now will you please let me focus? I need to get the incantation just right or it won't take."  
  
"Do you realize how hard it is to earn his friendship? It is such a _rare_ and beautiful thing - and you - you took it and _stomped_ all over it like it was nothing. Less than. Like it was _trash_." A flustered, sharp inhale and an equally sharp exhale through his nose as Jaskier calmed himself and a strange, warm feeling ballooned in Geralt's chest as he listened. "Never mind. What's done is done. Make no mistake, though. You are a _bastard_ for it."  
  
"You're allowed to feel that way, Jaskier. I cannot take that from you. Well...eventually I will, when I erase your memory, but you get the point." Casper chuckled to himself, then sighed. "I do feel the need to mention that demons are not inherently _evil_ , they're just most frequently used to commit evil _acts_ \- "  
  
"Oh, shove it up your arse. Not like any of this really matters. I’m sure Geralt would never walk into such an obvious _trap_ because he’s not stupid and coming down here would be _incredibly_ stupid. In fact, it would make him the _stupidest_ Witcher on the planet. And if he does fall for it, I hope he's ready for his new title - Geralt, the gullible fool of Rivia.”  
  
The gullible fool in question rolled his eyes. Jaskier knew him too well and clearly had a hunch that he was nearby, was trying to verbally warn him away. Why he felt the need to do it so offensively, though, was beyond him.  
  
“Insulting you mid-rescue?” Annika, from above, as he continued down the ladder. “He never ceases to amaze.”  
  
An affirmative grunt. “Insufferable.”  
  
"And yet you're risking everything for him by walking straight into - as he stated - an obvious trap." They were at the third bottommost level, nearly there. It was dangerously narrow compared to the others and they had to sidle along and hug the walls to reach the next ladder, sand and sediment spraying out from under their boots. "Love is a funny thing, isn't it?"  
  
"It’s not ‘funny.’ It’s a pain in my fucking ass."  
  
Geralt and Annika were talking in low, hushed voices. The entire way down they had tried catching glimpses of the duo at the bottom but they remained out of sight, the only evidence they were there being the scent of the bard's perfume and the earthier notes of Casper's skin and sweat on the gentle breeze, the sound of their voices as they bickered. As before - when he was just 'pompous prick' in the Witcher's book - Geralt sensed no bloodlust or malice from the mage. No danger at all.  
  
Somehow, that was more unnerving than the alternative.  
  
"So, what's the plan?"  
  
"Kill Casper."  
  
"And how exactly are we going to do that?"  
  
"Same way you kill any man. And _we're_ not doing anything." He fixed her with a stern look before they started descending the last rickety ladder. "As soon as I engage him you are to take Jaskier and run."  
  
She pouted. "Why? I was so looking forward to watching you make the traitorous shit shit his traitorous trousers."  
  
"No. You go straight to Yen, bring her here immediately. Leave Jaskier behind. He'll put up a fight." _He always does_ , he thought fondly. "Knock him out if you have to."  
  
"All right, all right. Only because it's been awhile since I rang his bell." Her brow furrowed, her amusement at the idea of clocking the bard fading. "What if Casper overpowers you? What if he's completed the deal by the time we return? Even the queen bee herself would have trouble fending off an all-powerful...well, _you_."  
  
"If that's the case, tell her to destroy my body by whatever means necessary. Casper cannot be allowed to leave this place alive. He's too dangerous. Take him down - "  
  
"But if we do that, you'll - "  
  
" - no matter the cost." Geralt finished, speaking firmly over her protests without breaking eye contact.  
  
The weight of his words hung over both of them. Annika fell silent, studying his face for any cracks in what she assumed to be a stoic façade. She found none, for it wasn't a façade at all.  
  
He was deadly serious. He was prepared to make the ultimate sacrifice, if that was what it took to ensure their safety.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Geralt didn’t bother attempting a sneak attack or ambush. No point. Casper was too clever for that.  
  
Instead, once they reached the bottom level, he and Annika simply stepped forth from the shadows around the door, immediately finding themselves bathed in soft blue light.  
  
Casper was standing before it, reading from a scrap of parchment with his hand raised. Jaskier was sitting miserably on the ground beside him with his chin cradled in his hands, but as soon as he saw them shot to his feet and threw his arms up in exasperation.  
  
“What the _hell_ are you doing here? Did you miss my whole bit about staying away?”  
  
“No.” Geralt furtively checked him over for any injuries, finding none save a small friction burn on his neck. With a near-imperceptible sigh of relief, he drew his sword. “Heard it loud and clear. Ungrateful arse.”  
  
“Well, then you - _you_ are a _stubborn_ arse. If you heard me, why are you here? You knew it was a trap. You...” Jaskier’s abrasive, scolding tone devolved into something quiet and desperate as he searched the impassive gold eyes before him. He knew the answer to the question, knew it better than anyone, but he still had to ask. “ _Why_?”  
  
“Isn’t it obvious?” Annika placed one hand - which was still missing fingers but had been healed enough to not need bandages - on her hip, the other propping the pickaxe up on her shoulder. “We’re here to rescue you." A smirk. "Ungrateful arse.”  
  
Geralt snorted, and Jaskier squinted suspiciously at them. "Oh, what? Are you in cahoots now? Two crotchety peas in a pod? _Adorable_. Well, you can turn right back around because I am formally rejecting your rescue." When they didn't budge, he waved them away. "Shoo. _Scram_. Back to the keep with both of you."  
  
There were several feet of space between their two small groups. Geralt watched carefully as Casper turned to face them, a good-natured smile plastered on his face.  
  
“I’m glad you came, Geralt.”  
  
The sound of his own name prickled his ears and he realized belatedly that this was the first time he was hearing Casper use it. The brown-eyed bastard stepped forward, not seeming to care that he was unarmed and outnumbered.  
  
“I was beginning to worry I had miscalculated your…” a pointed glance at Jaskier over his shoulder, who bristled, “ _vulnerabilities_.”  
  
“Fuck you.” Geralt hissed, spitting. The glob of saliva landed about an inch or two short of Casper's boot. Damn. “Hand over the bard.”  
  
“Straight to the point, eh?” In the distance, the twelve bells that signaled midnight began to ring. He finished the last sentence of the incantation under his breath and the door at his back started to creak slowly open. “I’m sorry, but no can do. Not until you agree to - ”  
  
Jaskier’s eyes widened in panic as he watched the Witcher - who, immediately after Casper's denial, decided he did not care what else their antagonist had to say (not to mention the fact that he was gradually becoming aware of other smells closing in on them, dark and malicious) - tighten his grip on his blade and adopt an offensive stance, preparing to engage.  
  
“No! Geralt, this is exactly what he wants - you're playing right into his hands! He told me all about his creepy plan and with the curse broken he can't take your body unless you cross over with him and - and your sword, it won't do anything, he's a go - ”  
  
Before he could finish the sentence, Casper casually flicked his wrist. A pulse of energy stole the breath from his lungs and sent him reeling back - he gagged and gasped, clawing at his throat, only able to look on helplessly as Geralt lunged.  
  
He swung downwards at the mage’s head in a large, powerful arc and shouted for Annika to grab Jaskier and run. Casper quickly hopped back, narrowly dodging and sending another blast at him. He angled himself out of its trajectory as much as he could at such close range but it caught his side, leaving a clean, deep slice in its wake.  
  
And Jaskier's eyes were bulging out of his head. It didn’t feel like he was dying, and it didn’t necessarily hurt – he simply couldn’t catch his breath, like he’d just run several miles without stopping. He wheezed, blearily looking up as Annika started beelining towards him.  
  
She was abruptly cut off by an arrow that embedded itself in the ground in front of her, perilously close to her foot. She retracted, eyes darting around the clearing, when suddenly someone leapt off the second-level ledge and tackled her.  
  
At the same time, countless more spilled over the ledge and into the pit - and even _more_ started descending the ladders above. A mixed bunch - mercenaries, creepy cultists, what have you - but whoever or whatever they were, they were all armed to the teeth.  
  
Also at the same time, a portal opened horizontally at the center of the clearing and spat out Yennefer and Ciri, who landed unceremoniously in a heap on the ground.  
  
A third fell atop them before the portal snapped closed and Jaskier, still making awful choking sounds as he struggled to suck in more than the tiniest breath, managed to look decently grossed-out when he realized it was the very dead, very mangled body of a mercenary.  
  
The sorceress was on her feet in an instant, shaking the sand from her lustrous curls and surveying the chaos that had suddenly exploded in the clearing. She hoisted Ciri up after her - the girl had a budding bruise on her cheek and a split lip, but was otherwise unharmed.  
  
"Shit. They got here before us." One mercenary charged at her and she thrust up her hand, sending him sprawling back. "Right. Draw your blade, Cirilla." The girl looked excited to fight, which didn't go unnoticed. "And if you so much as think about doing anything careless I will spirit you far, far away from here, young lady. Do not test me."  
  
She rolled her eyes and nodded, raising her sword to meet that of an enemy who had clearly seen her as easy prey.  
  
Meanwhile, Geralt had managed to pin Casper up against one of the torches, about a foot from the now fully-opened door. He dug the tip of his blade into the mage's belly button and a few droplets of red blossomed on his lily-white blouse.  
  
"Release Jaskier from your spell and call them off or I will gut you like a fish."  
  
Brown eyes regarded him coolly before flicking over to the ongoing fight at his back. He spoke barely above a whisper, certainly not loud enough for anyone but both of them to hear. “Show yourselves.”  
  
Almost instantaneously, three of the mercenaries suddenly stopped mid-swing or mid-punch and started screaming, eyes collectively bulging out of their heads before their skin began to bubble and shift and they abruptly burst into clouds of red mist. Out of their eviscerated bodies rose three monstrous horrors, each one more gruesome than the last.  
  
Because of course.  
  
A few of the mercenaries, presumably those from Narra’s original group, started shouting in alarm and scrambling to evacuate. One was snatched by a meaty hand and flung into the wall, crumpling at a horribly awkward angle and remaining motionless on the ground.  
  
The Witcher did not allow the new development to distract him. And he did not hesitate, driving his sword straight through Casper's middle and eliciting a surprised, ragged gasp. He gripped the hilt with both hands and yanked upwards, widening the wound to make sure he was delivering a killing blow.  
  
“Call them off. _Now_.”  
  
Casper's hand shakily held his forearm in an attempt to remain upright. He looked down at the carnage spilling from his abdomen and then back up to Geralt’s seething face, but his shocked expression dissolved into one of mirth just as the blood and viscera began turning into clumps of sand that quickly piled up around their feet.  
  
Geralt instinctively recoiled though the sword remained, a testament to his naivety. Casper released his arm and, with trembling hands, ripped open his blouse. A black seal appeared around his belly button, which had been sliced open by Geralt's blade.  
  
“A golem.”  
  
"Well-spotted."  
  
"But it smells..."  
  
“Human? Tell me, what _does_ a human smell like? Organs, flesh? Or simply the things you associate with that person?” At the way the Witcher defensively squared his shoulders, Casper offered a reassuring smile. “Don’t beat yourself up over it. You met me as an archeologist. Of course you didn’t question the fact that I smelled of earth, of dirt, of sand.”  
  
Even he had to admit it was clever. “Where’s your body?”  
  
“In there. I'm running out of steam, you see, and knew I wouldn't be able to best you like this, out here.” Casper jerked his head back at the open door. Sand was pouring off him in droves now, his vessel crumbling before Geralt’s eyes. “Come find me? We can have a proper battle. Winner take all.”  
  
“Not a fucking chance.”  
  
“Are you scared? Don’t be. Cirilla might not have had the best experience, but it’s not so bad. Don’t you want to see it?” He cast a glance over to where Yen was currently blasting holes through a hulking tank of a beast. “Don’t you want to see the place where such creatures thrive?”  
  
No matter how badly he wanted revenge, he would never be goaded into doing something so reckless. And since the mage hadn’t made any attempts at forcibly taking his body, he assumed that what Jaskier had said was true. Casper would have to get him to cross over to complete the deal.  
  
With all his careful planning, they finally had him resorting to last-ditch efforts. And it seemed he had been relying on Geralt’s anger and ego to blind him, not realizing he had long ago learned to temper such urges.  
  
The Witcher stepped back, watching as the sand coalesced around Casper’s lanky frame, consuming nearly every inch of him aside from his eyes and lips. “I’ll pass.”  
  
“Thought you might say that.” A sigh, and the sand started getting sucked through the door like a vacuum. “But I'm afraid you're merely postponing the inevitable. You will come. And I will see you soon.”  
  
With that, he was gone.  
  
Geralt scoffed. “Don’t count on it.”  
  
Suddenly, the female mercenary Annika had been fighting stopped and grinned, dagger-wielding hand falling limply at her side. She swayed a little, her whole body leaning at a strange angle and looking wrong, like a puppet with all its strings cut on one side.  
  
"That's my cue."  
  
Annika frowned, taking a careful step back. "What?"  
  
"It's been fun, Annika. You never fail to entertain. But duty calls, time to hold up my end of the bargain, yadda yadda." The woman bowed joltingly. "Laters."  
  
Shocked green eyes turned uncharacteristically fearful. "Vrar - "  
  
Before she could finish the name the woman turned and started running towards the door. As she did, she unbuttoned her top and her skin began to shift and darken, torso lengthening until her human form had completely changed into that of a large - practically human-sized - black snake.  
  
Transformation complete, Vrart coiled on the ground before bouncing comically up into the air, sailing right past the Witcher - who had braced himself, preparing for yet another fight - and careening through the door.  
  
"Huh."  
  
Honestly, he'd expected more effort from one or both of them. Casper was fucking delusional if he thought he was going in there after him. Let him rot among the demons, for all he cared.  
  
With that, he swiveled on his heel, grabbing his sword from where it had fallen on the ground with the intention of running to Jaskier. The mage's spell had broken as soon as he left their realm and, though finally able to breathe properly again, he was now - naturally - facing a new threat in the form of a mottled, purple-pink horror that bore multiple mouths.  
  
As soon as Geralt turned, however, Vrart's tail snapped back out from the shimmering, inky black veil that obscured the door’s contents. It wrapped itself tightly about his waist - once, twice, three times. He grunted, hacking at it with his weapon, but its scales held up against his silver.  
  
He heard Jaskier shout his name. Looked up to meet wide, wet blue eyes. Their owner seemed to have no regard for the monstrosity looming at his shoulder.  
  
The tail constricted, cracking his ribs. He felt the warmth of blood seeping down his side, soaking his shirt, as it forced the breath out of him and knew in that moment he would not be able to escape.  
  
On that last exhale he hoarsely managed to bark for Jaskier to run before reeling his sword arm back and lobbing the weapon as hard as he could directly at the toothy mouths preparing to descend upon their hopelessly distracted prey.  
  
The last thing he saw before he was dragged into the abyss was Jaskier reaching out to him and the demon staggering back, two sets of arms flying up to clutch its bottommost jaw, which had been cleaved by the blade.  
  
Ciri made to run to the door, perhaps even leap through, but Yen caught her about the waist and dragged her back, also fighting off the urge to do the very same. They couldn't go through the door. That was a one-way trip.  
  
Which meant Geralt was gone, unless he made a deal or some other miracle brought him back.  
  
And they were outnumbered, facing three demons - lesser or greater, she couldn’t be sure, but it didn’t really matter with how quickly she was burning through her energy to fight them - and a horde of surprisingly skilled enemies that did not seem to care whether they lived or died.  
  
And the door, it was closing. Painfully slow, creaking noisily as it did. Every inch made her gut constrict painfully, tighter and tighter until she felt she might be sick. And silently, as her attention was forcibly drawn back to the fight when the monster bellowed and nearly ripped off her arm, she started preparing herself for the worst. Started devising a plan to get their remaining numbers out safely.  
  
A plan that meant leaving Geralt behind.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Shell-shocked and staring at the rippling veil before him, Jaskier heard a squelch as the demon wrenched the sword free, tossed it aside, and focused back on him.  
  
He numbly turned to face it, not noticing the way the scar on his breast pulsed in recognition, visible above the low neckline of his blouse. The creature was maybe an inch or two shorter than him - and it wasn't like he was particularly tall to begin with - but it was _wide_ , and carried itself in a way that made it seem much larger.  
  
“Oh, would you look at that. You bear my mark."  
  
He followed its gaze to his chest, looking indifferent for Geralt was gone and in that moment, nothing else really mattered. The monster continued speaking.  
  
"I remember you. Little bluebird. You paid the price like everyone else...didn't think you would be the type to take it back so selfishly when I wasn't looking. Is love really worth all that?” It cooed softly, tone deceptively caring and gentle. All of its mouths spoke at once, one on top of the other, displaying countless rows of razor-sharp teeth that surprisingly didn't scare him at all. “What am I saying? Of course it is. But it doesn't change the fact that you're not supposed to be here. Let me fix it.”  
  
The tears that had been welling up in his eyes spilled over and tracked through the grime on his cheeks, big, fat teardrops of loss and anguish. He vaguely registered what the demon was saying, replied without much emotion or urgency, as if he was on autopilot.  
  
“No, you can't. It's keeping me - ”  
  
“Shh, shh. I know.” It leered at him, voice deepening and growing more sinister with each word. Its presence, thick and cloyingly sweet, weighed heavily on his shoulders and made all other sounds around him blur together in unintelligible dissonance. “It’s all right, my love. I'll make it feel so _good_.”  
  
Part of him knew he should be running but all the fight left him as abruptly as Geralt had been taken to gods knew where and he could only weakly shake his head. It smiled and placed a deformed hand upon his heaving chest.  
  
Immediately, an odd feeling spread out from where its bulbous palm touched his scar, cool tendrils of magic that unfurled in his chest, licked his ribs, tickled his heart. In the background, he thought he heard someone shouting his name.  
  
It wet its lips when he stifled a small sound. “Don’t be shy, darling. I want to know how it feels. Is it as good for you as it is for me?" It nodded encouragingly, noxious breath ghosting his face. Some sort of swarming, purplish energy pelted its shoulders but it didn't so much as flinch. "Go on. _Whimper_.”  
  
He did and it let out a pleased hum that sounded like it came from inside his skull, making his eardrums pulse.  
  
It removed its hand and what followed wasn’t painstaking and coppery like it had been in the muddy, bloody grass that day at Jannick’s keep. It was cool, like water trickling through a crack in a jar, but it didn't feel good. It felt awful. It felt _wrong_.  
  
His knees buckled and he clumsily brought a hand to his chest in a futile attempt at plugging the leak. He whimpered again, to the demon’s amusement, as beneath the scar a small glow blossomed and something started to emerge.  
  
Somewhere, someone once again screamed his name, louder and closer that time but still such a faraway thing comparatively. He didn’t know then that it was Annika, voice shrill as she jammed her pickaxe into the skull of the mercenary that had taken Vrart's place and began sprinting towards him and the creature.  
  
She was too late.  
  
The thing, the tiny ball of essence, was iridescent, winged, more butterfly than bird. After it had freed itself from his chest it fluttered in the air momentarily as if not sure where to go before suddenly, swiftly, veering right and following Geralt through the veil in the door just as it swung completely shut.  
  
The impact sent violent shockwaves through the pit, huge clumps of sand and debris falling from the highest level and crashing down upon them, taking out a few mercenaries who had been climbing the ladders to escape. One narrowly missed Yen, who was caught up in a battle of six versus one. _Plus_ gigantic, Frankenstein's monster-esque demon.  
  
Ciri had been fielded away from her by the third monster, very clearly distracted and driving herself mad with grief. She tried at every turn to bolt from the fray to the aid of both her father figures but the creature wouldn't let her, giggling raucously every time she swung at it and found her sword phasing straight through its amorphous, gelatinous body.  
  
Annika, still trying to make her way to Jaskier and lobbing all she had left at his attacker, abruptly stopped and fell to her knees, mouth hanging open in abject horror as the very familiar demon turned to face her with a stomach-churning series of smiles.  
  
And behind it, the bard’s body – eyes wide open but hollow and unseeing – crumpled lifelessly to the ground. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ayyyy, look at that! everyone gets a demon! demon for you, demon for you, demon for _you_ -


	92. Chapter 92

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting this early because I have like 3 finals on Monday LOL and please LITERALLY excuse my French I don’t speak the language at all and I’m so sorry if I butchered it pls forgive me
> 
> **changing the summary to let y'all know I might be slow replying to comments and also will probably be updating in two weeks rather than one, I've been really stressed lately

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a Witcher and his ghost boyfriend exploring another world and learning all sorts of cool new stuff! A wholesome tale, really. Next chapter we'll see what Geralt's up to. I meant to have both of them wake in the void in this one and have the two big battles happen in the next but that turned out waay too long.

Jaskier fell. The demon turned to Annika, all slimy smiles and pointed teeth. “ _Oops_.”  
  
Ciri let out a piercing cry, freeing her sword from where it had been trapped in the gelatinous gut of her foe. It melted into the ground with a gleeful burble and she sprinted for Jaskier. Before she could pass Annika, however, the witch shot to her feet and caught her roughly about the waist, dragging her kicking and screaming back.  
  
“No, you little - he’s _gone_!” A fist caught her in the cheek, surprisingly strong and she nearly lost her grip. Probably important to remember just whose daughter she was manhandling. “He’s gone, you understand? Jaskier is gone. And Geralt…”  
  
No, too much too soon. She decided to lie.  
  
“Geralt will come back. He will. But you have to run and hide while Yennefer and I take care of this. Okay?” Annika cast a glance at Yen, who – though she had dispatched all of the remaining mercenaries, leaving only the three demons to contend with - still had her hands very full with the hulking abomination that simply refused to fall. The sorceress managed a curt nod that cost her dearly, the demon hurling a hunk of stone that caught her in the temple and stunned her. “Run to the safety of the keep, Cirilla, and do not look back.”  
  
The girl’s nostrils flared, tears and snot mingling at her chin, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she struggled with the information and decision presented to her. She could easily overpower Annika…but the witch was using all of their real names rather than clever insults and for some reason, that alone compelled her to obey.  
  
After a moment that felt like an eternity, she nodded, and Annika released her.  
  
Both froze when the demon, not enjoying the feeling of being ignored, bent down and snatched Jaskier’s body up by the back of his doublet, dangling him cruelly before them like a prize at a fair.  
  
Ciri snarled and made to charge again but Annika caught her elbow and held her back.  
  
“He can’t feel anything anymore.” She murmured, though her voice shook with rage. “Don’t give it the satisfaction.”  
  
The demon tilted its head to the side, using the hand that wasn’t holding him up to smack Jaskier’s cheek as if trying to wake him. Its gaze, malicious and amused, never left the two horrified women before it.  
  
When the bard’s head only lolled limply to the side, fluffy bangs falling into his face and obscuring his eyes, it grabbed his chin and cheeks with that same hand, squeezing them tight enough to distort his slack-jawed mouth until his lips stuck out to form an ‘o.’  
  
As if that wasn’t enough, it started using that grip to manipulate him to look like he was speaking. It spoke for him out of the corners of its mouths, like a ventriloquist, mimicking his accent and distinguishing cadence quite well.  
  
“Sorry I died, _Ci-ri-lla_. I was so looking forward to boring you with more drippy ditties about your dearly departed dad.”  
  
It giggled excitedly before continuing the charade, and Ciri felt she might be sick but didn’t think she’d be able to move a muscle in that moment to stop it even if Annika hadn’t been holding her fast. All at once she lurched to the side, her stomach threatening to expel all of its meager contents. A hand was on her back then, cool and soothing even through the thick material of her cloak.  
  
“Yippee, look at me, I’m a chatty bard! I spend all my time frolicking around and obsessing over a crabby Witcher who can't even commit to moving in together! I should say something clever, shouldn't I? Ooh! What do apostrophes and demonic behavior have in common?”  
  
When neither answered, the demon used the hand holding Jaskier aloft to playfully shake him up and down. His arms thwacked slackly against his sides, legs jolting. It was awful.  
  
“They’re both signs of possession!” It guffawed, using a third arm to slap its own knee. After that, its voice returned to normal – if guttural and terrifyingly deep and sultry could be considered normal. “Ah, that was fun. I’m being really bad right now, but you know what they say - when the master’s away, the demons will play...too bad he wasn't more specific about what I wasn't allowed to do to you.”  
  
With that, it released Jaskier’s chin and tossed him at the girls. He landed roughly, skidding to a stop at their feet, unmoving and pale.  
  
Before they could react it charged, barreling towards them at frightening speeds. Annika shoved Ciri away, gesturing for her to leave before raising her hands towards it. She was nearly spent, barely had any energy left, but it would have to be enough.  
  
“ _Go_! I’ve got this!” Really, she didn’t. When Ciri instead knelt before Jaskier, hooking her arms under his shoulders and working on dragging him away with her, Annika abandoned all delicacy. “I told you he’s dead, he's _dead_ , you stubborn child – get _out_ of here!”  
  
“I’m not leaving him like this!” She shrieked back. The witch was forced to turn away and fire a series of magical bolts at the beast. That staggered it, buying precious little time, and Ciri continued dragging Jaskier away. Strange that she wasn’t crying anymore. In fact, she felt entirely numb. “I will not leave him like this.”  
  
"You can't possibly think yourself capable of carrying - "  
  
She did not back down or release Jaskier and Annika could not afford to focus long enough to stop her, interrupting herself mid-sentence to go on the offensive once more. She could only hope the girl would listen and get to safety.  
  
Of course, Cirilla never was a good listener. Rather than climb up the ladders she hurried to the opposite side of the closed door where she would be out of view but still nearby. For she had an idea of how to get Geralt back, how to give Yen and Annika a fighting chance against the demons, and needed complete silence to concentrate.  
  
She gently laid Jaskier down on the cold ground, removing her cloak and placing it over his body. Before she covered his face with its hood she paused, small hand cradling his cheek and then moving up to ease his half-mast eyelids closed.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
The little ball of energy that was, for all intents and purposes, _Jaskier_ struggled valiantly to pass through the veil, which was surprisingly the consistency of a thick, sticky quagmire.  
  
When it was nearly there, struggling to pry free one last wing, the veil suddenly coughed it out onto the other side. As it did, in a burst of tiny pinpricks of white-blue light, the winged thing shattered and gave way to one very intact, very confused-looking bard.  
  
He yelped as he was chucked out of the inky mire, crashing gracelessly to the ground and tumbling head over heels until he blindly thrust out his arms to stop himself. With a groan, he sat cross-legged and instinctively clutched his head, though he felt no pain.  
  
“Bloody hell! What...” He lowered his hands and glanced down at them with wide, confounded eyes. “Did - did I just _die_?”  
  
Nobody responded and he looked back up, trying to make sense of his surroundings. It appeared he was in the very dark, very large ruins of a hallway. It impressively still had a roof and maintained most of its structural integrity and he was seated on the remains of an aqua carpet, so threadbare it looked as if it had been painted onto the busted stone floor.  
  
When he turned back to the veil he’d been spat out of, he found it gone, replaced by more hallway.  
  
“Yikes.”  
  
He realized he wasn’t panicking nearly as much as he ought to be. Back on earth his body was cold and dead, he was currently trapped in what Casper had at one point called ‘the void,’ and his lover – who had been sucked into said void before his very eyes – was nowhere to be found and likely facing off the most terrifying monster Jaskier had ever met.  
  
_All_ of that, and _all_ he could manage was a half-hearted ‘yikes?’ He must have been in shock. Or was it a symptom of being recently deceased – you became annoyingly docile? How dreadful.  
  
Either way, he had to find Geralt. That took precedence over anything else.  
  
He stood, brushing himself off and padding down the hall in a random direction of his choosing. There was a horrible, suffocating stench permeating the air and an assortment of marble statues that lined either side of the carpet, one every five feet or so. Most were damaged badly by whatever had happened, whenever it had happened – long ago, if the accompanying smell of must and mold and decay was anything to go off of.  
  
A few were untouched, however. They depicted variations of what he imagined angels might look like – both masculine and feminine in physique, large wings in different poses, completely nude. You know, the usual marble statue stuff. Nothing to write home about, though they were very well-crafted.  
  
While he continued heading to who knew where, the white-gold sconces on the walls started to light as he passed them as if responding to his presence – double yikes – and cast a warm glow upon the statues.  
  
The left wing of the one he next walked by twitched and he shrieked, backtracking away from it. He watched as the wings, which had been delicately folded about its body, unfurled completely and revealed a smiling, marble face.  
  
“Hello, traveler.”  
  
Its voice was light and charming, like tiny little bells, but he shrieked again, pressing himself up against the opposite wall as its marble arms and legs started coming to life, crackling with stiff movements. It gave him a friendly little wave.  
  
“What brings you here? Would you like to make a deal?”  
  
“Oh, no. Nope. Not today.” He started sidling along the wall, not letting it leave his frame of sight but staying wary of the other statues around him. “I’ve had more than enough of demons to last a lifetime, thanks.”  
  
He did not fail to see the irony in that statement.  
  
It stuck out its lower lip in a pout, hand reaching out after him. “But I can make you rich beyond your wildest dreams - ”  
  
He was already several feet away, calling back to it over his shoulder. “No, I’m – I’m already rich in friendship, thanks! M-maybe some day I'll change my mind and we can, uh, circle back and - this is you, right? This is your spot? Good, got it, so...I'm just going to…go...”  
  
As soon as he reached the end of the hall he stopped speaking, turned the corner, and ran for his life. It let out an unhappy sigh, returning to its original position as if it had never moved.  
  
“Next time, then.”  
  
And he continued sprinting, heavy breaths echoing in his ears. Along the way he came across a rusted sword lying on the ground and snatched it up, not quite sure what he’d do with it but thinking it was better than nothing.  
  
He didn’t stop until he made it to a pair of broken-down double doors. A dead end. He groaned, shoving against one of them with his entire body until it creaked and swung open.  
  
It was a cavernous room, lit by a massive chandelier that looked a second away from falling. Where the hell was he?  
  
He guessed the particular area he'd found himself in might have been a throne room, once, and upon one of the grand seats on the dais at the far end sat Casper, pipe in his hand. He was reading.  
  
He barely spared Jaskier a second glance as he slowly stepped in. "Very clever. I won’t be falling for it, though. Begone.”  
  
Jaskier scowled, indignantly crossing his arms over his chest. “I’m not going anywhere, you self-righteous gasbag. I have a bone to pick with you.”  
  
At that, Casper chuckled, attention back on the scroll sitting upon his lap. “Spot-on impression, I’ll give you that. He does love his insults.”  
  
“Oh, yeah? Got plenty more. Thought of them as I squeezed my way through that ghastly portal.” Growing increasingly frustrated at – very confusingly – both being referred to in the third person _and_ not taken seriously, Jaskier took a resolute step forward, thrusting a finger at the other man. “So listen here, you avatar of asshattery - ”  
  
An irritated sigh. “I do not have time for this. Whoever you are, whatever deal you’re trying to make, I’m not interested. And otherwise spoken for.”  
  
“Deal? What are you on about, you moldy micro-phallus? You stinking combustible, you hedge-creeping _rogue_ \- ”  
  
“Does the name Valefor ring a bell? Because he’s on his way and if you are still here when he arrives I will have him devour you whole. How does spending a few hundred years in his belly sound?”  
  
“Of course the name rings a - have you suddenly forgotten the common tongue?" It felt like they were having two completely separate conversations, so Jaskier tried another tactic. "How's this - _ecoute maintenant, vous tête de noeud, je suis ici pour dire ce que j’ai à dire_ \- ”  
  
At that, Casper paused and finally looked at him, really looked at him, squinting and deepening the laugh lines around his eyes. “Where did you hear that? How do you know he knows that language?”  
  
“Who the hell are you talking to? _I_ know it because it was beaten into me with a cane by the sisters at my school, like I told you. Really, what's going on? Did you hit your head?”  
  
The ambivalence on the mage’s face vanished, for he had indeed heard the story before. “Wait - Jaskier? It’s really you?”  
  
“ _Obviously_.”  
  
Casper stood, suddenly looking alarmed. Concerned.  
  
“Spirits, I thought you were a demon. But how? You can’t be here. It’s too dangerous and you’re…” his gaze flicked down to the bard’s chest, exposed by the open top of his blouse and doublet, immediately noticing what was missing - the scar, “vulnerable. Oh, no.”  
  
Now _that_ was the reaction the bard was looking for. He nodded triumphantly. “Oh, _yes_. That’s right, I’m...here to stop you, apparently.” He would've preferred to locate Geralt first, but Casper didn't need to know that. "So...stop. Whatever it is you're doing. Reading?"  
  
“Jaskier…” A hand came up to cover his mouth, his eyes shimmering – were those _tears_? Okay, never mind. Definitely not the reaction he’d expected. “I’m so sorry.”  
  
“Sorry your many-mouthed demon killed me? Well, it was acting on _your_ orders so I’m afraid ‘sorry’ doesn’t quite cut it. Why else would you unleash that particular fiend?”  
  
“No, it wasn’t. And Valefor chose them. We had terms. They were only meant to distract, not kill - ”  
  
“And you _believed_ that?”  
  
“ – I had no idea he would…it must have found a loophole.” Casper shook his head, dropping his hand. He recovered impressively fast – whether his initial reaction had been genuine or an act, Jaskier did not know. “I truly am sorry. I never wanted this. I never meant for you to - ”  
  
“Save your breath. Your apologies mean nothing to me. Where’s Geralt?” He surveyed the room with a scowl, like he might find the Witcher squatting behind one of the thrones. He did not. “What have you done with him?”  
  
“He took an...unexpected detour. Never can predict where you'll land when you come here. The demon is fetching him for me as we speak.”  
  
“Yeah, good luck with that. He doesn’t much like being ‘fetched.’”  
  
“I’m afraid he won’t have much say in the matter. Valefor is…different here. Larger, for starters. Much larger.”  
  
“Size doesn’t matter to Geralt.” When he realized what he’d said he quickly backtracked, color coming to his cheeks despite the situation. “Not like - I only mean he’ll take the creepy bastard down, big or small. _Gods_ ,” he lowered his voice, muttering scoldingly to himself, “and you were on such a roll.”  
  
“Demons cannot be killed in their own realm, Jaskier. Not permanently. If the Witcher does manage to slay him he’ll simply regenerate.”  
  
Well, that certainly wasn’t good news.  
  
“What’s your plan once he gets here? You challenged him to a battle, didn’t you? Sparring sessions are one thing,” blue eyes narrowed, glimmering with a touch of pride, “but you haven’t yet seen him fight when his life is on the line. He _will_ win.”  
  
“I thought as much. Which is why there will be no battle. Admittedly, the offer was just a ruse to get him to cross over. All that’s left to do now is speak the words while he’s present, touch him and complete the deal. In return, Valefor will have him to play with for all eternity in here...or however long he lasts before breaking. In my old body, of course, but I could care less.”  
  
“Seems there’s very little you do care about.”  
  
Jaskier was trying his best to sound as casual as possible, but internally his mind was racing. He couldn’t let Casper near Geralt, then. He had to defeat the mage somehow. He was already dead, anyhow. What did he have to lose? He adjusted his grip on the blade in his hands before pointing it at the man before him.  
  
“Go on. Get your sword. Or mace. Or flail. Really hope it’s not a flail. Hey, how do we start this thing? Do I just…charge at you? Geralt usually does a quippy one-liner first but I don’t know if that’s proper etiquette or just his personal style.”  
  
"What?" Casper eyed the sword, stashing the scroll he'd been reading in his back pocket. “You’re seriously thinking about fighting me?”  
  
“Yeah, not really seeing an alternative here - _aah_!”  
  
He loped backwards as Casper abruptly raised his hand and sent a burst of flames his way. They licked the ground where he had just been standing, though he knew if the mage had wanted him dead – dead _er_? – he would be.  
  
“Think about what you’re doing, Jaskier.” Casper took a step towards him, balancing a small ball of fire upon the palm of his hand. “If you agree to stand by and let me take the Witcher, there’s a chance I might be able to help you. Maybe to return you to your body, but at the very least to find peace. You are a benevolent spirit. You don't belong here. They will tear you apart.”  
  
The bard was silent for a few minutes, staring intently at his feet.  
  
“Jaskier? Do you accept?”  
  
“Oh. _Oh_. Sorry, was just trying to think of a good opener. How does he come up with them on the fly like that?” Jaskier pretended to consider the mage's offer before shaking his head. “Mm, no. I don’t accept. En garde? Is that sufficient?”  
  
He never got an answer as Casper lobbed the ball of fire straight at him. He ran out of its trajectory with a cry but it followed close behind - at the last moment he dove to the ground, covering his head. The projectile flew straight over him, so close he could feel its heat and could have sworn it singed a few hairs, before exploding on the wall above.  
  
"Hey - that's cheating!"  
  
He sat up, pointing his sword accusingly at Casper. He had managed to make it to the north end of the room where there was a marble, spiral staircase. He wasn't sure what waited for him up there if he decided to take it, but the knowledge that it was nearby - that he could always run if it came to that, or at least use the stairwell as cover - reassured him.  
  
"I may be new to this, but I'm fairly certain you're not allowed to use magic in a swordfight."  
  
A shrug, Casper's palm once again sparking to life. His expression was intimidatingly serious, hardly any evidence of the lighthearted, jovial man Jaskier had come to know. "Then give up. Give up on Geralt."  
  
"Never."  
  
The third fireball came for him and he blindly tossed his sword at the mage before rolling out of the way and making for the stairs but the blast hit home before he could even turn his back, impact sending him sprawling against the wall.  
  
Eyes wide, he glanced down at his chest where there should have been a smoldering _crater_. Instead, although the front of his doublet had been burned terribly, the skin beneath was untouched. He felt absolutely no pain, not even from where his head had smacked painfully into marble.  
  
And there, across the room, Casper's cheek was bleeding from where the sword had, by some miracle, grazed him.  
  
On shaky legs Jaskier stood, allowing himself to feel the tiniest bit of hope. Because this was good, wasn't it? Casper couldn't hurt him because he was a bloody _ghost_ which was worrisome in its own right but, more importantly, _he_ could still hurt Casper.  
  
And judging by the look on the mage's face, he hadn't been expecting it - there, on his broad features, sat concern of a different color, plain as day.  
  
Concern that his well thought out plans could quite possibly be unraveled by a measly, meddling bard.  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry if anyone was looking forward to Geralt beating Casper’s ass but don’t worry Jaskier is about to throw HANDS LMAO (rly hope he lands a punch oof)


	93. Chapter 93

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wheeee I'm back! I took one of those accelerated 2-week January courses which was a whirlwind. Did not absorb _any_ of that info. Anyway, that’s that on me. Hope you had a lovely holiday and * **ARE** * having an excellent new year so far! 2021 better be treating you well or I will give it a _serious_ noogie! OK LOVE U! <3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> edit: fixed some embarrassing typos, _classic me_

Geralt awoke, still bleeding and alone, in a small holding cell that looked and smelled like it was underground. His broad frame was splayed across a cracked stone bench.  
  
He squinted against the dim torchlight, head pounding like he’d just come to after diving headfirst into a bucketload of fisstech.  
  
“Ugh.”  
  
With a grunt, he sat up, snatching the torch off the wall and using his other hand to staunch the flow of blood from the wound in his side. No idea how long it had been bleeding unhindered like that. The bars of the cell were corroded terribly, perhaps by age, and after he gathered his bearings managed to wrench free enough of them to squeeze through.  
  
The hall outside was cramped and the whole space looked much like a dungeon, window-less and dark and damp. In one room – the door of which had been blown to pieces by something long ago – he found several tools and a large wood block that might have once been used for torture. He plucked a rusted longsword from the refuse. Not sure what good it or the torch would do, but they were something.  
  
The ground was coated in inches of a viscous, red-near-black liquid that trickled lazily down the stairs at the end of the hall. He could not find its source and when he dipped his fingers in and sniffed he caught traces of iron but there was something off about it, something rotten and decaying and wrong. Hastily, he scrubbed his hand clean on the side of his pants, the skin the liquid had touched tingling faintly.  
  
It was everywhere but not high enough to hinder his progress, barely to his ankles. It splashed beneath his boots as he started carefully navigating his way to what he hoped to be the surface, though he knew not what awaited him there.  
  
As he plodded up the stairs he tried making sense of his surroundings, utilizing all of his senses. So this was the other realm - this was where demons spawned. It didn’t look like much, really, though his sightseeing was currently limited to a staircase, a torture room, and a four-by-four cell.  
  
Ciri had come here when she vanished that day, he was sure of it now. What he had thought to be blood on her pants was strikingly similar to the waste he was currently trudging through. He vaguely wondered if this place mirrored their world, wondered if he was currently traversing a morbid version of Aedd Gynvael’s dungeons…not likely, and if that were true it would raise several more questions. Were their spheres linked? If so, to what extent? And was that why travel and communication between them was possible in the first place?  
  
Dwelling on it too long made his already throbbing head hurt so he decided to settle on finding a way out as quickly as possible.  
  
He was about halfway up the winding staircase – which was maybe five feet wide – when he became aware of a faint scratching sound in the cracked walls on either side of him. It started off faint, like a little mouse scurrying to its hole, but quickly grew closer and louder.  
  
He barely raised his sword in time as through those cracks, heaps of cat-sized spiders burst out and immediately lunged at him. He cursed and started swinging both torch and blade, their pincers snapping at his face, one managing to claw his neck.  
  
When he skewered it he saw it wasn’t really a spider at all - it did have far too many legs and wriggled like an insect but its several beady eyes were purple and gleamed like amethysts, its body a grey hardened carapace, its mouth filled with rows of sharp teeth and chittering wildly in its death throes.  
  
Were they tiny demons? Who the fuck knew. They didn’t seem capable of communication. It certainly wasn’t his intention to invade another world and massacre the first species he came across but, to be fair, he was there against his will and they struck first.  
  
"What did I do to you?" He shook the dead one off his blade, dispatching another and hustling up the stairs. They continued pouring out of the cracks, falling from the ceiling, reaching ridiculous numbers and threatening to overwhelm him. A few fell on their backs, legs wriggling in the air, and he crushed them with his boots as he went. " _Fuck_. There's no end to them."  
  
He made it up the stairs to the next floor, void spiders breathing down his neck and trying to crawl up his legs and weigh him down - he slammed the door shut but they started pouring from the cracks in this new hallway, filling the space between him and the next staircase at the other side.  
  
Quite suddenly, the air a few paces ahead started to crackle and pop.  
  
And just like that, Cirilla was there, eyes wide and puffy from crying. In spite of the chaos he froze, eyes equally wide, wondering if perhaps the loss of blood was making him hallucinate. That, or a demon was playing tricks. But the look on her face...  
  
“Ciri?”  
  
When she saw him, tears sprang to her eyes once more and even though he wasn't sure if she was real or an apparition, his heart lurched.  
  
“Ciri. Are you hurt?”  
  
“Geralt! No, no I’m,” she hastily scrubbed at her eyes with the back of her sleeve, “just happy to see you. When you got pulled in, I thought…” A pause when she realized he was currently under siege. She wrinkled her nose and splattered one of the creatures with her boot when it started clawing at her leg. “What _are_ they?”  
  
“Lesser demons, maybe.” He had to spin back around, hacking away at the army swarming him. “But what - the _fuck_ – are you doing here?”  
  
“Never mind that.” She laughed weakly at the disapproving-dad glare that earned her, though her pigheadedness most definitely assured him she wasn't a trick. “I came to rescue you. Looks like you need it, too. Sword?”  
  
One creature fell on his head from a rupture in the ceiling, then another. He cursed, tossing the blade to her while grabbing the tiny, squealing arachnids wreaking havoc on his hair and crushing them in his palms.  
  
She caught the weapon, swinging at a few that had been drawn to her. A slight lull in their numbers allowed them precious few moments to speak. Her relief at finding him alive and well enough to scold her transformed into concern when she saw the rip in his tunic – he was without his armor, allowing her to see very plainly the shredded skin on his side.  
  
“You’re hurt.”  
  
“It’s nothing.”  
  
Fresh blood pulsed from the injury, gleaming wetly in the light of the torch he had set on the wall. “That’s not nothing. You need a healer.”  
  
“Stop changing the subject, Ciri.” Geralt grunted, stomping several little rascals before casting another withering glare at her. “You can’t be here. _Go_.”  
  
She skewered about five on the blade, stubbornly shaking her head. “I told you I’m here to rescue you. If these blasted _things_ would stop attacking and give me a moment to think, I might be able to figure out how to get us both - ”  
  
“Never mind that.” He offered a smug smirk as he parroted her own words right back at her, but made sure his tone conveyed the gravity of the situation. “I can't risk you getting stuck here. I'll find my own way out - I always do. But you are leaving. _Immediately_."  
  
"But - "  
  
"No buts." An impressively awkward pause, considering the carnage he was currently engaged in. "Are the others…is everyone safe?”  
  
Between his words, remaining unsaid, she heard the bard’s name.  
  
_Oh_.  
  
“Geralt, Jaskier is…”  
  
The words wouldn’t come and the Witcher impatiently shook off a spider that had been trying to poke a mandible into his ear.  
  
“He’s what?” His eyes narrowed. “What the hell did he do now?”  
  
When she didn’t say anything, he stepped towards her, but each time he stomped down on a spider countless more took its place and kept him from fully focusing, fully closing the distance between them.  
  
“Whatever it is, I need to know - _fuck off_!” One had bitten his ankle but he dealt with it swiftly. The girl flinched and he softened his tone, not realizing it had nothing to do with her distress. “Ciri, is he in trouble?”  
  
She had to be the one to tell him. She knew she did. Why was it so hard? She was no stranger to death.  
  
Still, her voice shook and the tears returned with a vengeance.  
  
“No. No, he’s - ”  
  
Just then, a stray spider burst through a crack in the wall beside her head and lunged. Caught by surprise, she dropped the sword, tumbled backwards and instinctively squeezed her eyes shut to prepare for impact.  
  
When she reopened them she was back on earth, hiding behind the stone door, Jaskier’s motionless body her only company.  
  
“No!”  
  
She slammed the door with her fist and shook her head. She had to go back. She couldn’t lose Geralt, too.  
  
Go back, get him out. Surely she could manage that. If not, what use were her stupid powers, anyway?  
  
Slowly, she slid to the ground, squeezing her eyes shut again.  
  
“Take me to him. Take me to him _now_.” She cracked one open to glare at her hands when nothing happened. “Come on. Take me back. Back to Geralt.”  
  
Her words alternated between firm demands and desperate pleas, voice whisper-soft and wavering when still, nothing happened. At some point she lowered her head into her arms.  
  
“Stupid, stupid, stupid.” She shook her head again, trying to rid herself of the memory of Jaskier’s glassy eyes, of the deep wound in Geralt’s side and the pallor of his complexion. “Go back. Go back. Go _back_.”  
  
A giggle from above interrupted her mantra. Horrified, she glanced up and saw the gooey, viscous head of the gelatinous demon she'd been fighting sticking out through the door, having somehow squeezed its way through its tight-knit particles, peering down at her with filmy eyes.  
  
It was close enough that its putrid breath ghosted her face. " _Hullo, shiny one_."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
After Ciri’s sudden disappearance, the number of spiders thinned enough for Geralt to grab the sword and book it up the next flight of stairs. After several more he broke the surface and found himself in a large, open pit but before he could process any of that information, a massive mouth lowered itself to the ground, swallowing up the remaining spiders that spilled out with him with a pleased groan and a shiver that shook the walls.  
  
He quickly stepped back, boots sloshing in the murky red liquid that formed a small lake in the clearing, and gazed up at the monstrosity before him.  
  
Vrart. Had to be. Absolutely gigantic, though still serpentine with surprisingly shiny black scales that gleamed with mixed hues of navy, amber and emerald depending on where the scant moonlight hit them. His eyes were each easily the size of Geralt’s head and if he straightened to his full height the Witcher was sure he would clear all three stories of the mysterious, crumbling building they were at the center of.  
  
He did not let that phase him, surreptitiously scanning the area for an escape route as the demon also reared back to get a good look at him.  
  
“Eating your own kind?” As Geralt spoke with obvious disapproval, his gold eyes flickered almost imperceptibly upwards, towards the roof. The structure had been built around this clearing – perhaps it had once served as some sort of fighting pit – and there were open balconies on all sides. Vines cascaded down the length of them, connecting each floor…if he could climb up them, find somewhere to rest long enough to heal and get his thoughts in order. “Fucked, even for a demon.”  
  
“They are mindless, senseless beings. We are not the same.” Vrart rumbled, voice considerably deeper than it had been in the past. He paused, pondering something. “Consider them the horseflies of the underworld...and a delicious, nutritious snack.”  
  
Geralt snorted, careful not to let his gaze linger on the vines too long so he wouldn't give himself away.  
  
“'Underworld?’ That's a little fucking melodramatic, don't you think?”  
  
“Whoopsie. Force of habit.” Vrart gave a little wriggle that had the grotesque liquid sloshing erratically. “It’s always an easier concept for earth-dwellers to understand. We’re not really under you at all. More akin to next-door neighbors, but I’ve found most who seek my services are not too fond of the idea of a world like _this-s-s_ ,” the tip of a large tail gestured to the moon – fractured, as it had been in Geralt’s vision – and sky, to the veritable pool of red coursing at their feet, “being so much like their own.”  
  
Geralt followed his gaze to the moon, squinting. He needed to wait for the right time to run. He didn’t dare take Vrart on like this, wounded and barely armed.  
  
“At least your world is honest about being a hellscape. There’s something to be said for things that present themselves as they are.”  
  
“Mmm. Like you, Witcher?”  
  
The demon grinned, flicking his tail and smushing a medium-sized, bulbous being that had been slowly creeping up on Geralt from behind. He did not flinch as the action sent shockwaves through the increasingly claustrophobic space, but realized belatedly that Vrart was slowly inching closer with each word. He tightened his grip on his sword as the demon continued.  
  
”You, who condemns humanity yet insists on involving himself in all its petty bullshit. Those who live in glass houses should not be so quick to cast stones.”  
  
“I could care less what you or anyone thinks of me.” Geralt started very discreetly edging leftwards, where he noticed the snake would no doubt have a blind spot. “Where is Casper?”  
  
“You say that, but after spending some time in that lovely, complex head of yours I know that you do, in fact, _care_. Heh. I also know just how much you love playing the hero, though you'd never admit it.”  
  
A little further…keep the demon talking. “And how do you figure that?”  
  
“It is coded in your actions - when you helped that lowly farmer in exchange for a meager ration of food rather than coin because it was all he had…when you fought off the bandits harassing that family in their traveling caravan and asked for nothing in return.”  
  
A foot away, but each step became harder and harder to take - after that last sentence, Geralt stopped entirely, sword dipping low into the pool of red lapping at his boots. Every word Vrart spoke quietly intensified a weight that bore down on his shoulders, halting his progress, his will to continue.  
  
He grunted with the effort of shaking it off, though every inch of him screamed that he should give in, let it take him. His amulet was going wild on his chest, head throbbing in time with its vibrations. He managed to find his voice again, not liking how obvious Vrart’s effect was on him.  
  
“Do not presume to understand me, demon.”  
  
“But who better to? And with that understanding comes the knowledge that unfortunately, your personal tragedy lies in the simple truth that you are not and never will be perceived as the hero. You will always be the villain, gaining respect through hate and fear rather than love. Hate for what you are, fear of what you can do. The lowly farmer will always curse your name as soon as you turn your back, even after helping him. The family will always throw coin at you to get you to leave, even after you tell them you want none of it.”  
  
The pressure shortly became unbearable, cloying and thick. Geralt staggered, using the sword as a crutch. He felt his wound throb in protest, felt the warmth of fresh blood trickling down his hip. He successfully shook the feeling off again, trudging through the liquid that now felt like a mire, dragging his feet towards that blind spot. Why the snake hadn’t struck yet was beyond him. Perhaps it was all just some sick game to him.  
  
“If you’re wondering, Witcher, that will never change. No matter how many ballads your bonny bard sings in your favor…ah, speaking of, he’s currently having a similar conversation with my master inside. Really getting under his s-s-skin, from what I can tell. That’s not good.”  
  
That had Geralt snapping to attention, the pressure of the demon’s spell abating immediately at the mention of Jaskier.  
  
“Jaskier is here?” His eyes narrowed suspiciously as he sniffed the air, finding no trace of those distinct florals on the breeze. “You’re lying.”  
  
“Lying? _Moi_?” Vrart placed his tail against his chest, feigning shock. “You’ll see soon enough. Anyway, enough dilly-dallying. My master is running out of time. If I must bring you to him minus a few less-important bits, I’m sure he won’t mind. Nothing he can’t fix once the deal is done.”  
  
In the blink of an eye the demon’s massive tail was hurtling towards him, but Geralt leapt forwards, finding cover under the lowest balcony. It would hide him for as long as it took Vrart to lower his head - a feat that would take _some_ clever maneuvering and buy him a few minutes, at the very least.  
  
The appendage crashed into the spot where he had just been standing, kicking up massive waves of red liquid. He booked it under the balcony towards the lowest-hanging set of vines. He could not stress enough how little he wanted to fight this thing, this colossus, while at such a disadvantage.  
  
Vrart hissed excitedly. It was difficult to fit the entirety of his frame so low to the ground and when he couldn’t get a good look at the Witcher decided instead to start sweeping around beneath the lowest balcony with his tail.  
  
Geralt reached the vines, but climbing them meant stepping out and exposing himself. _Damn_ it. He was woozy, not thinking clearly due to the blood loss and remnants of demonic magic tickling the back of his mind.  
  
The tail swiped under the balcony in a wide arc and he braced himself, for there wasn't enough room to dodge completely – it caught him directly in the stomach, flinging him into the wall and aggravating his wound. He choked on bile and blood and saw stars but did not falter, ducking low as it recoiled for a second blow.  
  
A fight it was, then. He fetched his sword from where it had been forced from his hand and Vrart dipped low to meet him, unhinging his powerful jaws with the intention of snapping him up.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Jaskier smirked tauntingly. “You can’t hurt me.”  
  
Casper groaned, nursing a budding headache. After that strange new development, the pair had engaged in a slightly awkward standoff at the center of the throne room. Neither had made any move to attack the other as of yet.  
  
“Yes, I _can_ , Jaskier.”  
  
“No, you can’t.” Jaskier gestured to the burnt material of his doublet, to the untouched expanse of skin beneath. “I’m basically a ghost.”  
  
“So you said, but I don't think you really know what that means.”  
  
"It _means_ you can't hurt me. So I’m going to need you to call off your demon and let Geralt go. Uh…now.” Not accustomed to being at such an advantage, Jaskier wasn’t really sure how he should be playing his cards. “Or - or else.”  
  
“Or else what? You’ll harp at me some more?” Casper glanced towards the massive double doors impatiently. He had resumed his seat upon the throne. “Where _is_ he? Should be here by now.”  
  
“Hey – quit brushing me off!” Jaskier indignantly stamped his foot. “I am a _threat_.”  
  
“You are not a threat, Jaskier. A nuisance, yes. But not a threat.” Brown eyes gestured to the sword lying forgotten on the ground between them before returning to the scroll they'd been scanning. “See - you haven’t even _thought_ to pick up your blade.”  
  
Jaskier cursed and went to grab the thing but Casper lazily flicked his hand without looking up, sending it clattering to the far side of the room behind a pillar.  
  
Jaskier gaped at him before shaking his head and stomping towards it. “Oh, _fuck_ off.”  
  
While Casper brooded on the throne, the other found something else behind the pillar that had his eyes widening. Before the mage could react - not that he would, self-assured bastard - Jaskier dove down and grabbed the ancient crossbow, which had been blessedly loaded beforehand. He also snatched a bag of spare bolts that had been lying beside it before whirling around and aiming his newfound weapon at the mage.  
  
Casper finally looked up only to roll his eyes and wrinkle his nose in disgust. “How old is that thing? Put it down, Jaskier. I don’t fancy getting lockjaw should you misfire and somehow manage to graze me.”  
  
“ _No_ , you shit. I demand to be taken seriously.” Jaskier shook the crossbow, cringing at the way it clattered noisily. It was awfully rusted, too. Hopefully it was still in working order. With his luck, probably not. “Tell me where Geralt is and how to get him out of here. Tell me _now_.”  
  
A labored sigh, the dismissive wave of a hand.  
  
“If it means you getting that thing out of my face, then fine. I don't know where he is. But traveling between worlds - it comes at a very high price. You would have to bear untold amounts of power to do so freely. That kind of power is rare. To come by it…well, suffice to say the only way he’d be able to get out is if I somehow died and he made a deal with Valefor in my place.”  
  
“Oh. Is that all? Then I’m…” The previously lighthearted ridiculousness of their conversation suddenly gave way to something more serious and Jaskier swallowed through a lump in his throat, voice wavering as he steadied his hold on the weapon. His face had gone white as a sheet. The bolt was trained on the other’s skull and, noticing the change in tone, Casper finally sat up a notch. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to kill you, Casper.”  
  
“Jaskier.”  
  
“I’m sorry. You've given me no choice."  
  
The mage seemed to come to some silent realization and stood, arms hanging limply at his sides. His eyes left the crossbow, found Jaskier’s, and the look on his face was indescribable...so serious, so self-righteous it was almost _obscene_.  
  
“Don’t do this. Don’t make me - ”  
  
Just as Jaskier fired his weapon - a _little_ bit on accident, if he was honest - Casper uttered a single word and suddenly all the candles on the chandelier above them were snuffed out. Jaskier heard the bolt clatter uselessly against the far wall but before he could reload his weapon a forceful burst of magic slammed into his side, sending him sprawling back.  
  
It didn’t hurt, but it definitely _moved_ him as the previous blast had - and no, he refused to dwell too long on the physics of it. He managed to keep hold of the crossbow and bolts, scrambling around on the floor to get his bearings when he saw a tiny flame spark somewhere to his left. He plastered himself against the pillar in time as it grew in size and hurtled towards him, lighting the way enough for him to catch sight of a flight of stairs going up, about ten feet away.  
  
“Let me know when you’ve given up, Jaskier. Can’t go wasting the rest of my magic on you.”  
  
Casper’s voice called above the roar of the blaze as it funneled out on either side of the bard – he could feel its heat but it brought no pain, even though he was mere inches from its flames.  
  
He whimpered, shaking hands struggling to reload the crossbow. He had seen Geralt do it several hundred times but, _godsdammit_ , had never _once_ paid attention.  
  
“It’s a noble idea, I’ll give you that.” The flames abated for a moment and Jaskier heard Casper take a few steps forward. “But you simply stand no chance. I didn’t want any of this. I didn’t want you to get involved, to get hurt – to _die_ , but you _insisted_ on meddling and meddling and - ”  
  
The bard hummed softly to himself to drown out the other’s voice – if he could make it to the stairwell, it would provide better cover. Perhaps he could snipe the bastard from there. On a wing and a prayer he scrambled out from behind the pillar and sprinted, diving behind a large hunk of fallen ceiling just as Casper sent another burst of flames his way.  
  
“Look where we are, Jaskier. The fight was lost the moment he set foot in this place. It’s not worth risking what little you have left – I told you I would help you find peace, and I will hold myself to that promise if you give up now. You have my word.”  
  
“Your _word_?” Jaskier was still fumbling with the bolt. It had been damn near impossible to figure it out in the pitch darkness the place had fallen into but now, with remnants of Casper’s flames offering scant amounts of light, he was starting to get a feel for the contraption. “No offense, but your word means jack _shite_ to me.”  
  
"Then I'll be forced to snuff you out, too."  
  
"Too bad I've already been snuffed. _Arsehole_."  
  
Finally, he managed to load the crossbow. The stairs weren’t far, now mere feet away.  
  
It was then that Casper readied another projectile but, quite suddenly, hissed in pain, the magic spluttering before fading out in his palm. The pain remained, a burning inside the fingertips of that hand – Jaskier used the distraction to stand and aim, eyes widening when he saw the way the mage reeled and hunched his shoulders in agony.  
  
He kept the crossbow trained on Casper’s heart, but his eyes flitted down to the now-blackened tips of his fingers. “What’s happening to you?”  
  
“Never mind.” They curled into his palm, as if to hide from the other’s curious gaze. “You really think you can do it?”  
  
Jaskier’s own fingers trembled on the release.  
  
“You really think you can take a life?” Casper smiled kindly at the other’s obvious hesitation. He didn’t dare try casting again so soon, lest the increasingly volatile reserves of magic he was running on burn him from the inside out. “It’s all right. I already know the answer. But take your time figuring it out for yourself.”  
  
“Sod off.” Jaskier muttered, looking down in betrayal at the hand that was quickly proving physically incapable of firing a killing bolt. And really - _still_? After Forle, after _everything_? “Don’t patronize me.”  
  
“When we first met, Jaskier, I was baffled by you. I couldn’t possibly imagine how such a young _buck_ could hold the interests of a Witcher as wise and world-weary as yours for as long as you have. I thought for sure he was using you purely for carnal pleasure and letting you labor under the illusion that you meant something to him. For what more could you offer him? A silly, frivolous thing, you seemed to be.”  
  
“Silly? _Frivolous_?” Jaskier mulled it over, shrugging his shoulders while keeping the crossbow fixed on the other. If he couldn’t pull the trigger then he could at least prolong this new standoff. And talking had never been an issue for him. “Yeah, I see it. And if you're trying to get under my skin, this isn't the way - I had those very same doubts myself at first. Nearly a year later and even _I_ can’t tell you what he sees in me. Hopefully, I’m more than just a walking, talking hole by now, though.”  
  
“Walking, talking - ?” Casper barked a rough, but sincere laugh. “Gods, but I _do_ like you. You’re fun, you know? And you’ve got no shame whatsoever. Reminds of someone I used to know.”  
  
A sigh that carried the remnants of his amusement. He shook his head, toying with the hem of his sleeve before raising his hand. There, in his eyes, Jaskier barely caught it – the merest flicker of what looked to be regret.  
  
The bard wet his lips, feeling - for the first time since this hellish night began - that he was conversing with the man he’d come to consider a friend and ally. Feeling hope. Hope that he could reach Casper, pull him back from this wicked precipice, save them all from the assured destruction that always came of dealing with demons. He spoke slowly, cautiously.  
  
“Your friend - is that who I remind you of? The one you betrayed?” He didn’t receive an answer, soft brown eyes regarding him earnestly, and took that as a sign to continue. “Casper – you made a mistake, but - ”  
  
“Mistake? I killed him in cold blood.”  
  
“Yes, but - ”  
  
“Had Valefor lure him to the door so I could stab him in the back. I didn’t want to see the look on his face as I brought him through to complete the ritual, but the memory of the warmth of his blood on my hands proved just as haunting.”  
  
“That is, uh…that _is_ unfortunate. Look, I didn’t say it wasn’t a _huge_ mistake, but - but that doesn’t mean you can’t make up for it now. Right?”  
  
The mage went quiet again, head tilting to the side. He wasn't trying to blast him to hell and back - that was progress, wasn't it?  
  
“Take Geralt, for instance. D’you know how hard it is to keep him in check? He treads the line between White Wolf and Butcher while I scramble to put a heroic spin on things before some other minstrel crafts something catchier that paints him as a villain. And that’s because he does stupid shit - _all_ the time, if you’d believe it. He’s made plenty of mistakes, but he doesn’t let them define him - he learns from them. You can, too.”  
  
Casper was still staring at him, hand suspended in mid-air, halfheartedly taking aim. Jaskier noticed a few charred fingers starting to curl back towards his palm, the limb retracting ever-so-slightly. Encouraged, he went on. Not like the mage could hurt him, anyhow.  
  
“And look at me. I’m no class act - far from it. I’ve caused the untimely deaths of _countless_ noble marriages. And I guess there’s no harm in telling you, since I’m dead and all, that I once drunkenly broke in and stole a valuable painting from a nasty scholar. With Geralt’s reluctant assistance. It was a first edition, and should have gone to me – the bastard bribed the auctioneer to ignore my bids, and…er, you get the idea. Everybody does wrong at some point in their lives, big or small, but it’s never too late to change. Your village, your people - you care about them. What would they think of you if they knew what you did all those years ago, what you're doing now - if they knew the evil you've - ”  
  
Just then, something flared in Casper’s previously pacified expression and the fingers that had been slowly curling clenched into a fist. Jaskier cut himself off with a gasp, doubling over as a strange pang erupted in his gut, like his insides were working overtime, writhing around like snakes.  
  
“ _You_ need to learn not to speak of things you do not understand, Jaskier.”  
  
The crossbow’s aim faltered.  
  
“For the record, you don’t remind me of my friend. He was straight as an arrow. You say everyone does wrong, but he was the exception.” Casper’s eyes narrowed as Jaskier heaved, clutching his belly, weapon forgotten at his side. “No, you remind me of myself. My past self. Emotional. Rash. _Flawed_. I cut ties with that weak-minded fool centuries ago, and I’ve no problem doing it again.”  
  
Jaskier realized too late that he had made a fatal mistake – had naively dipped his hands into the mage’s still waters, expecting a wealth of regret and compassion but finding instead a tempest of other well-concealed but unpredictable, volatile emotions beneath their surface.  
  
Casper stepped forward, eyes and face alight, giddy and vaguely _ecstatic_ while simultaneously exuding malice, the kind of which Jaskier hadn’t - until then - felt from him but knew very well. The inklings of regret and concern previously coloring his features were nowhere to be seen.  
  
For the first time, the mage looked a proper villain.  
  
There was also a strange aura pouring off him, like when they were traveling through the desert and Jaskier noticed the sandy road ahead would occasionally glimmer and glisten as though it was water. Geralt had informed him it was a common phenomenon, a trick of the light due to a difference in temperatures.  
  
What did it mean in this situation? Jaskier tried to hold onto the thought but a fresh wave of pain had him hunching back over.  
  
“Your first mistake was assuming I value anything over the pursuit of power. I do not.”  
  
Jaskier’s lips parted to speak but ghostly white vapors started spilling from his mouth unbidden. He clapped a hand over it to quell them, eyes wide in horror. Casper continued, tone and pitch ranging from euphoric and frenzied to languid, painstaking. That alone made him sound all the more dangerous.  
  
“Your second was discussing what I did to my people as if your tiny brain could possibly comprehend the situation. And thinking you could convince me to change my mind, take it all back - _ha_. I’m sorry to say we are _well_ past that point, my friend."  
  
Jaskier's watery eyes squinted at the use of the words 'tiny brain.'  
  
"Not an insult, but a fact. You've existed for a mere fraction of the time I have, can't possibly see the trivialities of things like good and evil the same way I do. Besides, I couldn’t stop all this even if I wanted to. Without a new vessel I will wither and die and my village will suffer for it. How long before, without my protection, they are invaded? Hit by another plague? They're not ready to thrive without me just yet.  
  
"Now, I may not be able to harm you physically, but you are a spirit. Not a ghost. And spirits,” Casper tightened his fist and tugged, sending the other reeling, drawing forth more tendrils of white essence from various places on his body, “can be exorcised. A dreadful fate, in which you will find no peace...but really, you've forced my hand.”  
  
The next tug had Jaskier on his knees. Through bleary eyes, he turned to look at the staircase. It was the closest way out. If he could distract the other somehow, break his focus…with all the strength he could muster he lifted the crossbow and prepared to fire. He had to do it. He _had_ to. For Geralt, for -  
  
It turned out he actually didn’t have to at all. Before he could fire, Casper inexplicably lurched to the side with a hoarse curse, interrupting his own spell and freeing the other from its clutches. The use of power had sent fresh pain lancing through his burnt fingertips once more, traveling all the way up his arm and reaching a spot behind his eyes that burst like fireworks. The air around him radiated dangerously.  
  
Jaskier clawed his way back onto his feet and ran for the stairs, not realizing how stifling the atmosphere had been down there until he was bombarded by fresh, crisp air.  
  
He heard the mage shout his name in anger, spilled clumsily out onto the ruined roof of the building in time to see a gigantic serpent rear its ugly head, obscuring the horribly shattered moon and bleeding profusely from a gaping wound in its neck, before striking downwards at something he could not see below.  
  
Forget the void. This place was _hell_ , plain and simple. And he had no earthly idea how he was going to find Geralt and escape it. He thought at the very least he wouldn’t have to worry about the whole ‘or die trying’ bit but, as it turned out, there were apparently fates worse than death, one of which he could now hear crashing haphazardly up the stairs in his wake.  
  
Then, from somewhere below, a distant but familiar shout had him sprinting to the roof’s edge, getting on his hands and knees and peeking over.  
  
There, three stories down and trying to free a mangled arm from the crushing grip of the massive snake’s coiled tail as it flicked him playfully about an oval pit nestled in the center of the building, was Geralt.  
  
Well...not in the way he'd imagined, but there was one mission accomplished. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt telling ciri to go back to earth in this chap is the fantasy equivalent of telling someone to wait in the car change my mind


	94. Chapter 94

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first name my fantasy name generator gave me for the flashback scene next chapter was "Clitonolt," killing me instantly ಥ_ಥ I mean...I can't, right? 
> 
> I'm so sorry for slow updates, been busy busy <3 this chapter is mostly Jaskier's pov and ended up being a rly wild ride that I wrote fully caffeinated at 4am soooo, soon we'll see more of Geralt's battle and the ladies and some... _fun_ reunions. finally yayyy. Can't wait for everyone to be back in the same universe goddamn

Vrart was squatting with his long legs tucked into his chest, one arm curled around them – a stance that made him look small and harmless. He offered Jaskier a hand that hung in the space above the motionless body between them.  
  
On his knees, Jaskier alternated glances from one to the other for as long as he dared. Hand, body, hand, body. He couldn't bear to look at the latter for too long - from its missing arm to its full but colorless lips, its vacant expression...  
  
He sucked in a sharp breath, murmured ‘ _fuck it_ ’ on the exhale, and took the demon’s hand within his own. It was surprisingly soft, comforting and warm, like a hug at the end of a bad day.  
  
Uncanny, slit-pupiled eyes regarded him coolly, curving slightly at his acceptance.  
  
“Very well. Master..?”  
  
A well-manicured, black eyebrow quirked expectantly and the bard realized, with a sinking feeling, that Vrart didn't even know his real name. That he was doing something like _this_ with someone – some _monster_ \- he barely even...  
  
He shook the thought from his head. Too late for that now.  
  
“It - it’s Julian.”  
  
“I'll need your full name, darling.” As Jaskier relayed the rest to him, Vrart nodded, smacking his lips like each name was a sumptuous snack. “Mmm. Master Julian... _Alfred_?” A mid-smack sneer. “ _Really_?”  
  
“What do you mean ‘ _really_?’ What's wrong with - I'm sorry, this coming from a _Vrart_?”  
  
“Hush, shh.” The demon uncurled his free arm and pressed a spindly finger to the bard’s lips. “I jest. It is a fine name, in its entirety. I may not know much about your world but I do _adore_ your names - they hold such rich history, all of them. For instance, _Julian_ has Latin roots – it means ‘young at heart.’ And Alfred, if you’d believe it, comes from the Elder word for ‘counsel' - ”  
  
Jaskier's eyes crossed to glare at the finger, which muffled his voice. “I love an impromptu lesson on etymology as much as the next guy, but this really isn't the time.”  
  
The demon removed the digit with a sigh.  
  
"Eager, aren't you? I suppose you're right. Master Julian Alfred Pankratz,” they were still holding hands, that comfortable heat intensifying with each word, “do you accept the terms presented to you?"  
  
"I do."  
  
"And have you looked over all the clauses? Addendums?" From out of seemingly nowhere, Vrart produced a magnifying glass. "Read the fine print?"  
  
"I...wait, clauses? _Fine print_? You haven't given me anything to look over!"  
  
"Relax, it's just a little joke to lighten the mood - we like to have fun here." He tossed the magnifying glass with a _clatter_. "Mm'kay, so, we have a deal - "  
  
The heat was quickly taking a turn towards the unbearable - it felt as though their palms were one degree from melting and fusing together, but when Jaskier tried snapping his hand away, deceptively strong fingers held it fast.  
  
"Let me finish my bit, will you? - _so_ , we have a _deal_ \- "  
  
As Vrart outlined their contract, Jaskier's shoulders and back curved and hunched under the pain but he stopped his outright struggling, made braver by the face staring sightlessly up at him from the cold, hard ground.  
  
" - and no amount of weeping, whining, begging, screaming and/or tooth gnashing will exempt you from honoring the terms of said deal when required. I really want to drive that home, because you look like a gnasher. Got it?" Somehow, the bard managed an agonized nod. "Splendid. Oh, this is going to be such _fun_."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
**Less than one hour prior...**  
  
Jaskier gripped the edge of the roof with white knuckles, extending as far out as he could whilst shouting the Witcher's name.  
  
Even though only three stories separated them, the wind howled loudly, stinging his cheeks and leaving them flushed and he was _sure_ it drowned out the sound of his voice but he valiantly kept trying.  
  
_Blasted Witcher hearing_ , he thought, _only seems to kick in at the most inconvenient times, like when we were served those spoiled dumplings back at the coast_...  
  
While he spent the day suffering in the washroom, Geralt - to his horror - quietly left a cup of ginger tea for him on the table outside before heading out on a job.  
  
That memory (because after all was said and done, it _was_ sort of sweet) renewed his efforts.  
  
"Geralt! You bastard - look _up_!"  
  
Vrart's thick tail was coiled tightly around the Witcher's left forearm. Every time the demon tried to lift him off the ground, presumably to bring him to Casper on the roof, he managed to maneuver his way back down, using all of his weight and wit to keep himself from being carted up to a deadly fate.  
  
The only weapon he had was a brittle sword on his back but he was casting aard and yrden like a madman and somehow - miraculously - actively holding his own against a genuine leviathan. An intelligent one, at that.  
  
But even so, Jaskier could see the fingers of that trapped left arm were purpling alarmingly fast. If he didn't free the limb soon...  
  
How? How could he help from so far away?  
  
There was also the matter of Casper, who had stopped on the stairwell to recover by the sound of it. Jaskier could hear his labored breathing, smell burnt hair and flesh...  
  
" _Geralt_!"  
  
That last shout had Vrart pausing mid-fight to crane his head playfully backwards and upwards. When he saw Jaskier peering down at them, his tongue flickered and he winked.  
  
Gold eyes quickly followed his gaze, annoyed that he found something more entertaining than the battle at hand...  
  
And then widened, doing a comical double-take before narrowing a-a-all the way down to slits.  
  
Jaskier let out a shaky breath as several emotions crossed Geralt's face all at once. Deliriously, he thought it was the most range he'd ever seen the Witcher display in such a short time: first shock, relief until he remembered where they were, then doubt, confusion...  
  
He settled on anger, of all things. A silver brow twitched, a vein in his neck throbbed, and his expression screamed ' _what the _fuck_ are you doing here, you meddling little _shit__?"  
  
Jaskier couldn't hold back a giddy grin. He cupped his hands around his mouth, shouting as loud as he could.  
  
"Never thought I'd be so happy to see _that_ puss! Need a hand?!"  
  
The flustered, resentful affection that softened Geralt's features let him know his shouts had been heard.  
  
Of course, Vrart took full advantage of the distraction. He gave a sharp tug that dragged Geralt off his feet - Jaskier's grin vanished and he was forced to watch the demon cackle and draw closer, watch Geralt woozily regain his footing, stumble slightly...  
  
He was bleeding - badly, even for him - but managed to shake off the lightheadedness just in time to cast aard again before the demon could yank him back off his feet.  
  
The sign carved through part of the first balcony above them, causing a large hunk of stone to crash down upon Vrart's head. Geralt then skillfully used the snake's hold on his arm against him, managing to yank him off-balance, maybe even topple him if he found the right footing and leverage.  
  
Seeing Jaskier seemed to renew the fight in him. He drew his sword, but didn't know what Jaskier knew, didn't know it was _impossible_ to kill a demon in its own realm, that he was fighting a losing battle -  
  
" _Jaskier_ \- you son of a bitch!"  
  
The sound of Casper bellowing his name caused Jaskier's back to straighten like a scolded child.  
  
There, in the doorway at the far end of the ruined roof, stood the mage.  
  
Jaskier's hand flew to his mouth if only to keep his jaw from hitting the floor. "Bloody hell, Casper..."  
  
The sleeves of the brunette's lily-white blouse had been burnt away to reveal two ravaged forearms, the veins of which were disturbingly prominent, as if his blood was literally boiling. The skin around his eyes was raw and irritated, their whites so bloodshot they appeared entirely red from a distance.  
  
Disheveled, burnt, seething. The look on his face suggested Jaskier was an insect he simply could not wait to crush.  
  
Very not good. Even _less_ good was the fact that one of those charred hands was aimed right at Jaskier, sparking with energy. The sight made his abdominal muscles tense in preparation for the soul-wrenching feeling they'd only just experienced.  
  
But it didn't come.  
  
"Why?"  
  
"Why...why what?" Nervous blue eyes gestured at the hand. "Should you really be doing that? It's just - you're not looking so hot." A pause and an internal wince when he realized what he had said, saw irritation cross the other man's face. "Um, no pun intended."  
  
"Why is it always you? At every turn, around every corner..." Casper's voice was ragged, like he hadn't had a drop to drink in days. "It is always you, standing in my way. Do you know how many times I had to erase your memory?"  
  
"I want to say...three?"  
  
"More. You started catching on the night that dwarf came to our camp, when my name was missing from your journal. And the more involved in your story I became, the more entries disappeared." A scoff at the scandalized look that earned him. "Would you rather I had just killed you outright? Besides, look what good it did me - here you are, post-mortem and _still_ a thorn in my side - _why_?"  
  
Jaskier finally summoned the courage to stand, brushing himself off. The sounds of Geralt and Vrart fighting in the pit below couldn't possibly have escaped the mage, but he had yet to acknowledge them...what was was he waiting for? Why wasn't he finishing what he started in the throne room?  
  
Unless he couldn't. Was he just buying time for the demon to win?  
  
Jaskier's mind started going a mile a minute. If Casper's spells were backfiring on him - _hurting_ him, as evidenced by the burns and steam still rising off his shoulders - maybe he could weaponize that. Goad him into using them again, hopefully incapacitate him...to do that, he would need to start pushing a _lot_ more buttons.  
  
Luckily, he was a very skilled button-pusher.  
  
The mage scowled and Jaskier cursed when he realized he'd been quiet for too long.  
  
"Um..." Where were they? Oh, right. "If you're asking why I'm still trying to save Geralt, well, I think the answer to that is fairly obvious...then again, I shouldn't expect a heartless prick like you to understand concepts like love and loyalty."  
  
_Not a bad start_ , he thought, applauding himself.  
  
The mage pushed himself off the doorway he'd been leaning on for support, staggering out onto the roof while barking a humorless laugh. It was all very intimidating, but his inaction reaffirmed Jaskier's hunch that he was stalling for time.  
  
"I understand them better than a fickle mortal such as yourself ever could."  
  
"Oh? And how's that?"  
  
"Why else would I spend so much time and effort rebuilding what was lost? I've been nurturing that town for centuries, and never once used the powers I earned from its predecessor's destruction for personal gain." Casper waved a dismissive hand. "When was the last time _you_ committed yourself so wholly to something that wasn't a pint at the tavern, Jaskier?"  
  
"Really, with the orphans _again_?" The bard rolled his eyes. "You just love bringing them up. It's not so selfless when you remember they have a statue of you - and a church, in your honor! They worship you as a god."  
  
Some of the heat came back to Casper's voice at the mention of the statue. "I didn't ask for any of that."  
  
"But you like it, don't you? A part of you must. I bet it makes you feel big. Feeds that obvious god complex you've got going on." Jaskier's lips curved into a mocking smile. "Come on, you can be honest - we're _friends_ , aren't we?"  
  
Casper took another step closer, eyes flaring with emotion, but Jaskier stood his ground. The wind had picked back up - strong, cool gusts that whipped his bangs about, tore right through his doublet and blouse.  
  
"How _dare_ you? Every time I look at that statue, I see the demons' wrath in vivid detail. I see that night as clearly as if it had happened only yesterday."  
  
"Yes, let's chat about that night. A tragedy, of course, but after giving it some thought I simply must ask..." Jaskier drew in a breath - more to brace himself than anything else, for he was sure he had found the right button. "Why are you lying to yourself about it?"  
  
Casper's eyes widened, the question clearly catching him off guard, but he did not cast. He reeled himself back in, voice lowering dangerously.  
  
"What are you implying?"  
  
"You know, saying it was an accident. Ooh - or is it one of those lies you've told so many times that you're actually starting to believe it?"  
  
"It _was_ an accident."  
  
"No. No, it was part of the _bargain_ , wasn't it?" It was Jaskier's turn to take a step forward. He could tell his words were starting to cut deep, saw the way they made Casper flinch...just a little more. "The bargain _you_ struck. Get new powers and a new body and, in exchange, the demons roam free. Those were your terms. You told me so yourself. _You_ were the one who opened the door."  
  
"I didn't know the destruction they would bring. I couldn't have." The mage's voice trembled, the words coming out through gritted teeth. It was very subtle, but he was starting to sound a little insecure, a little unsure. "Stop this, Jaskier, or so help me - "  
  
"I don't think I will. Because you're not stupid. Because when you knowingly set off a bomb large enough to wipe out the whole city, you don't get to act surprised when it _wipes out the whole city_."  
  
"Shut up - shut _up_!" Sparks of energy crackled noisily at the mage's fingertips. The insecurity, the self-doubt, they became more apparent with each accusation. "It wasn't a bomb. It was _one night_. And Valefor - he told me - it wasn't my fault, you have to understand - a _single_ night, I couldn't possibly have expected - "  
  
The bard lowered his voice as he delivered the final blow, talking right over the other's increasingly desperate and incoherent denials.  
  
"But it _was_ your fault, Casper. I think the awful truth you're so scared to face, the real reason you devote yourself to helping them, is that you _did_ know. You knew exactly how that night would go down. You applaud yourself on never using the power for personal gain, but all those people - you traded their _lives_ for it."  
  
The eerie silence he was met with only spurred him on.  
  
"And the best part, in my opinion, is that you claim to be so selfless, so neutral, blah blah - but what all that _really_ makes you is one of the most selfish, wicked people I've ever met. In fact, if I get out of here, I am marching straight over to that town and telling them - "  
  
He did not get to finish his sentence. The word 'everything' lodged in his throat as Casper snarled and clenched his fist, yanking it upwards - _gods, yep, that did it_ -  
  
The effect was immediate and that terrible feeling came back, the ripping and tearing that started in his gut and worked its way through his whole body, like an invisible hand was weeding him of all that he was.  
  
"Love the optimism." Casper grinned madly, face alight as Jaskier collapsed onto his hands and knees. "But you're not getting out of here. You've just sealed your fate. Little tidbit - these ruins, they're all that's left of my city. I spirited them here for safekeeping when the Brotherhood started snooping around. And now, they'll be your final resting place."  
  
He closed the space between them. That same essence started pouring from Jaskier's mouth and nostrils, spilling onto the ground in a thick, misty pile, his eyes watering as he struggled to draw in breath. How was Casper still so powerful? How was he not burning up like before - had Jaskier's hunch been wrong? All that for nothing...why couldn't he do anything right?  
  
"Is that poetic? That you'll be forced to remain in limbo here for all eternity? I'm not really sure...let's hear from the expert."  
  
Casper crouched before him, used the hand that wasn't spectrally rooting around in his insides to grab his chin and lift his head. Fearful, watery blue eyes met dark, rage-clouded brown ones and Jaskier stubbornly tried yanking his chin free, hoping to catch one last sight of Geralt.  
  
The mage did not let him.  
  
"Come on - where are all your clever words now, Jaskier? Hm?" He chuckled as the other continued trying to glance over the roof's edge into the fighting pit. "You know, I'm starting to enjoy the way you look when you're in agony. Maybe there always was a little villain in me, after ah - _ow_! _Bastard_!"  
  
The hand that was balled in a fist before Jaskier's eyes, the hand that was casting, suddenly sparked and fizzled. Casper howled and flew to his feet, holding the offending arm out in front of him. A strange symbol had started carving itself onto his palm, glowing subtly like hot coals. With the way his hand was positioned, only Jaskier could see it.  
  
But both men watched in horror as all five of his fingertips and the symbol abruptly burst into wicked, white-hot flames. The bard shot to his feet as the fire, rather than subside as it had before, burned brighter with each passing second, journeying slowly up the rest of Casper's hand until it had been consumed entirely.  
  
"Casper - shit! Oh, shit, shit, shit - "  
  
Alarmed, the mage started flinging himself haphazardly about the roof as the fire climbed up to his elbow. He batted his hand against the front of his tunic to put it out, but that only made it bloom, become tinged with hues of violet.  
  
Jaskier fumbled with the remaining buttons of his doublet, taking a step towards him. He wasn't about to watch someone slowly burn to death before his eyes, no matter how fiercely he hated them.  
  
"Cas - "  
  
" _Fuck you_!"  
  
Casper aimed the burning appendage at him again, eyes wild and bearing seemingly no trace of the mild-tempered man he once knew. Their brown irises also appeared to be lit by fire from within, an awful vision made worse by the broken capillaries that littered his lower eyelids.  
  
"Casper, stop - you have to stop using it, it's killing you! It'll burn you alive, you can't - oh, fucking hell!"  
  
The mage sent a pulse of magic at him, sobbing in agony when that caused the fire to flare again. He crashed heavily to his knees, face twisted in pain. It was clear he no longer had any sort of control.  
  
Jaskier watched in awe as his other hand clutched desperately at the elbow of the burning arm to stop it, but it continued firing pulse after pulse, worsening the flames until they reached his shoulder, licking at his neck, catching on his hair, evaporating the tears as they spilled from the corners of his eyes...  
  
Unfortunately, the last pulse caught Jaskier square in the chest and sent him flying off the roof.  
  
He just barely, by some rare stroke of luck, managed to catch its edge before he could plummet to his...second death? From there, he held on for dear life with both hands - he tried lifting himself but his palms were so clammy they nearly slipped with the movement.  
  
He didn’t dare try again, didn’t dare look down because he knew based on the ledge he had fallen over that not only was there no balcony to catch him, there was no Geralt below to check on. He was dangling from the complete opposite side of the roof. _That_ was more like his luck.  
  
And so he was forced to dangle helplessly while listening to Casper's horrible screams, bracing himself as increasingly erratic pulses of energy shook the roof.  
  
It went on like that for a few minutes that dragged on like hours but eventually, everything above - all the shouting, the stomping, the general rampaging - ceased all at once. Eerily quick.  
  
He wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on, didn't know if Casper had burned to a crisp or fixed the problem and was readying himself to come back and finish the job. All he knew was that he couldn’t feel his arms, that his pinkies kept slipping and he really needed to get checked by a healer because sweaty palms of this magnitude in such a short time couldn't possibly be normal and - oh, gods, was everyone dead? Casper - _Geralt_? It was so ungodsly quiet...  
  
Just when he thought he couldn’t take it any more, just when the fingers of his right hand slipped completely over, a tan one shot out over the edge and caught him by the wrist. It was shortly followed by a face peering curiously down at him.  
  
It was Casper.  
  
He was…smiling? Looked a little different, too. His features had changed. Nothing too drastic - small things, like the curve and color of his lips, the shape of his eyes, a dimple in his right cheek that hadn't been there before.  
  
“Oh, good.” Jaskier panted, his voice strained with effort. He glanced nervously to the fingers clutching his wrist, still holding onto the ledge with his other hand. “Back for more? Or are you done with your little temper tantrum?”  
  
“Jaskier, right? I’m sorry you had to see that. I'm...not... _that_ anymore.” Even though the fractured sky was still dark as night, his face was bright and sunny - like a warm summer day. And he was, suspiciously, no longer on fire. “Are you all right?”  
  
“ _No_ , I'm not all right! What does that even mean - 'not that anymore?'” Jaskier gave an experimental, impatient wriggle. “Are you going help me up or not?"  
  
“We need to talk. I know what you’re going to do. I saw it, before, when I was being purged.” Casper’s smile was so genuine, so soft, and his voice was so smooth Jaskier nearly forgot he was completely avoiding the question. “This will probably fall on deaf ears, but…please, don’t do it. Even if it feels like the right thing at the time, I promise it’s not. It never is.”  
  
“Don’t do what?” Jaskier yelped when his pinky slipped, Casper’s grip quickly becoming his only lifeline. “Look, I don’t know what the hell you’re on about and I'm very, very exhausted so if you’re going to throw me off please, for the love of the gods, just _do_ it already - ”  
  
“ _What_? Oh! Sorry, sorry. Hard to think straight...things are flooding back so fast. All that power turned me into a real dick, didn't it? You were right about the god complex - _yeesh_.” Brown eyes blinked apologetically down at him. “I can help a little, but I’m afraid you’ll have to do most of the work. Just...don’t freak out and fall when I show you, 'kay?”  
  
Casper dangled his other arm over the edge. Or, what was left of it. When Jaskier saw the state of the limb, he choked on the sassy retort he'd been preparing.  
  
From the elbow down, the arm was all but gone. Its sleeve had long since burned away, all the way up to the shoulder, and though the fire was out the skin was still being slowly eaten away by something…else. Something shimmery, magical - pretty, but wrong. Very wrong.  
  
It almost looked like all the particles that made up Casper’s arm were detaching one by one, breaking off and vanishing in the now-gentle breeze like tiny falling stars. Was it painful? It looked it, but the other man didn't seem to be in any pain at all.  
  
“Casper…why is your arm doing that? And why are you talking like that?” Jaskier regarded the limb fearfully, flinching and going cross-eyed as a speck of magical Casper-dust wafted too close to his lips. He hurriedly tried blowing it away, but accidentally sucked it in with a cringe. “Gods, I just swallowed a flake - is it - is that bad?”  
  
“No, it's not bad. Just kind of gross." He laughed, and it was one of the nicest sounds Jaskier had ever heard. "Come on, upsy-daisy. Put your back into it.”  
  
He gestured to the limb and the bard reluctantly grabbed it right above the elbow. With an awful lot of grunting, they both worked together to hoist him back up onto the safety of the roof.  
  
It wasn't until he was up there that he realized half of one of the mage's legs and a large chunk of his right side had followed the very same fate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wanted it to be a mystery who jaskier was making the deal for so i messed up both of their arms HAH! that's how we solve problems here BABY (it's prob so obvs ugh)


	95. Valentine's Day 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you find a glove on the side of the road on St. Valentine’s Day, your future beloved will have the other missing glove.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sure ur looking at the chapter title and saying ‘another vday chapter, really????’ and like I toootally hear you but I found this cute old wives’ tale and was like omg cindergeralt and prince charmaskier and then…wrote this. and wanted to share it with u!! its so dumb PLS
> 
> As usual set years before the fic, same universe, super cracky & totally skippable. Soz for using _that_ werewolf trope lol, always looking for an excuse to crack open my lexicon of dick jokes
> 
> Happy belated valentine’s! 😊

**Years ago, somewhere in the countryside...**  
  
Jaskier stopped again to break on the side of the road. It was the end of winter – 14 February to be exact – and the still-frigid countryside air burned his lungs both on the inhale _and_ exhale.  
  
“ _Toss a coin to your Witcher, o' Valley of_ \- ” he interrupted his own shaky song with a wheeze, teeth chattering violently, “ _fuck me_.”  
  
He was on the road, on foot, without supplies and traveling alone…the fact that not a single carriage passed in that time was just the shit icing on the shit cake.  
  
As he gathered himself and continued, he reflected on the series of events that got him there.  
  
And in retrospect, no, a few precious minutes of pleasure from having that nameless beauty’s lips wrapped around his family organ were not worth the pain and suffering he was now being forced to endure as punishment.  
  
Getting caught in the act by the Countess herself after she had just seen fit to welcome him back (with crossed arms and ample clothing) was perhaps why that punishment turned out so severe.  
  
Banishment from court, effective immediately. A price on his head and the most insulting wanted poster he’d ever seen. He’d been forced to escape the city like a mouse on the run in the wee hours of the morning, and had been walking ever since.  
  
That she had blackballed him from every social event happening in the territory on one of his favorite days, though, was the shit buttercream flower atop the shit icing atop the shit cake.  
  
So there he was, wandering the countryside in the cold with no cloak, no coin, no food or water. Only his lute and what little remained of his dignity.  
  
At some point he came across a medium-sized puddle in the road. There was a black bundle floating in it, and when he picked it up he realized it was a glove.  
  
Black leather, studded, exquisitely-crafted. Far too nice to be floating, forgotten, in suspiciously warm and viscous rainwater.  
  
He pocketed the thing with a shrug. Might be worth a pint or two...now to find a bar where he could trade it in and drown his sorrows.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
It was still light out when he finally found one, and for a hole in the wall it was surprisingly packed.  
  
He took a seat, groaning in relief because the boots he was wearing, while stylish, were definitely not meant for walking. An elderly woman introduced herself as the owner and took his order. Exhausted and dirty, he savored one drink, and then another, and then a third – and when time came for payment he offered instead a salesman’s smile.  
  
“So, here’s the deal - I can’t pay you in the technical sense _but_ ,” he pulled the glove out of his pocket, “I can offer you this.”  
  
She raised a brow. “One glove.”  
  
“Found it on the side of the road this morning. It’s a little worn, but soft as a baby’s bottom and worth _at least_ three pints. Maybe even four.”  
  
“Found it, you say?” Her face suddenly lit up. “Oh no, no, no, I can’t accept that, dearie. Don't you know what today is? I couldn’t possibly interfere with the gods’ work.”  
  
Jaskier’s disingenuous smile faltered. “Come again?”  
  
“Well, you know how the saying goes.”  
  
“Afraid I don’t.”  
  
“Something along the lines of, ‘if you find a glove on the side of the road on the day of love, your future beloved will have the other missing glove.’”  
  
“That’s oddly specific. Are you sure you didn’t just make it up on the spot?” She shook her head, and he wrinkled his nose at the glove in question. With its 'true nature' revealed, he was starting to notice some flaws. “You’re telling me my future beloved is a dirty, stinky giant? Really, smell this thing, it's - ”  
  
“True love is nose blind.”  
  
“What - okay, I'll play along. Exactly what am I supposed to do with this information?”  
  
“Find them, of course. As long as you do before the new day starts, it's meant to be.” She took a seat across from him, excitedly taking his hand. “What you have stumbled upon is a rare and beautiful thing, my dear. Happened once to a fellow in my town. He spent the whole day searching for its counterpart and as it turned out, it belonged to a _princess_. They wed immediately.”  
  
“ _Immediately_? Yikes.”  
  
“Yes, because there was no doubt about it. It was a sign from the gods. And this is, too - a sign that your twin flame is near. You must go looking for them, at once.”  
  
He gingerly took his hand back, wiping it on the front of his doublet. “And where do you propose I start?”  
  
Without answering, the woman shot up, snatching the glove from his hand. She started waving it in the air, addressing the masses.  
  
“Has anyone recently lost a glove? If you have, this strapping young man right here is yours for the taking - ”  
  
His face went bright red and he quickly urged her to sit back down as a burly man sitting at the bar surreptitiously slipped off one of his gloves and waved his bare hand in the air.  
  
“Really? I _saw_ you take it off!” The bard shook his head, turning back to the innkeeper. “Look, I appreciate your help, but this whole thing – it’s just impractical. I can’t very well drop to one knee for every ruffian who favors black leather. I’d be proposing to half of bloody Temeria.”  
  
“I see.” With a gentle smile, she returned the glove. “I recommend giving it a second thought, dearie. You don’t want to lose a shot at true love, do you?”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
Try as he might, Jaskier couldn’t shake those words and by sundown, the poor glove had been forced on hands of every shape and size. None fit quite right. When that large-handed, large-breasted woman claimed the glove was hers he _almost_ looked the other way when it didn’t fit - almost. But he decided if he was going to spend the day chasing fairytales, he might as well do it properly.  
  
He also had high hopes for the bookish, freckled brunette sitting hunched over a corner table and scribbling furiously in a journal, but not only did he refuse to try the dirty rotten glove on, he rejected Jaskier so amiably the bard almost thanked him for it.  
  
After he had asked practically everyone and found no success, his foul mood started creeping back in. And what had started out as a shit day stayed true when he asked about a room and found the inn was booked solid for the evening.  
  
“Just gave the last one away, dearie. I’m so sorry.”  
  
"You've got nothing at all? Not even out in the suh – in the _stuh_ …” He wanted so badly not to have to ask that he had to force the word out, “ _stables_?”  
  
“Oh, I wouldn’t recommend it. It gets a little…colorful in there after hours. What I can give you is a bedroll and a blanket, though. Bottle of spirits to warm your belly in the cold? I feel so badly that you didn’t find your other glove.”  
  
“A crying shame, to be sure, but now I’m more concerned with how I'll survive the night. Aren't there any other inns nearby?”  
  
“Closest is about a day away on horseback. But there’s a lovely lake in the woods, not far from here. Nice spot to make camp, safe and secluded...do be sure to mind the werewolf, though. She’s been on a tear.”  
  
“Thanks, I - did you say _werewolf_?”  
  
♜ ♖  
  
So, this was his life now. Accepting pity alcohol from strangers, forced to spend the night roughing it in the wilderness with a werewolf on the loose.  
  
Sure, he’d roughed it plenty of times but that was usually with a certain sour-faced Witcher. As he dejectedly wandered the forest, searching for the lake, he started thinking back to the steps Geralt usually took to make camp.  
  
“If I were Geralt, what would I do?” At a cool breeze, he hugged the bedroll closer to his chest, and adopted a grumpy expression. “First, I would scowl like this for no reason. Grr, scary Witcher. I love glaring at nothing.”  
  
The forest was eerily still and slightly claustrophobic, his own voice bouncing off the trees and echoing back to him. In the distance, he heard water splashing and beelined towards it.  
  
“Then, after building a fire – even though I could easily catch a deer or a rabbit – I will do the bare minimum and serve up something like twig soup, or rat on a stick.”  
  
Nearly there. He thought he heard a soft whinny but paid it no mind, too caught up in his monologue.  
  
“Lastly, I will eat my portion aggressively fast and then glare at Jaskier’s until he gives it to me because I am a _shameless_ defensive eater.”  
  
He broke through the underbrush and stumbled out into the clearing with the lake, but rapidly realized he was not alone. He had to blink a few times to understand that what he was staring at were the backsides of both… “Roach? Geralt?”  
  
The horse snorted out a greeting but the Witcher didn’t turn around or acknowledge him. He was standing in the lake, which was about up to his thighs. He was also completely naked and in the process of dumping a large bucket of water over already-soaked silver hair.  
  
“Geralt! Hello-o-o?” Jaskier dropped the bedroll in disbelief, stepping up to the water’s edge. “Are you ignoring me? Oh, that’s a brilliant start. What are you even doing out here?”  
  
Geralt still hadn't turned around, but shot a look at Roach as if to say, 'do you believe this guy?' “Like you didn’t plan this.”  
  
Jaskier rolled his eyes. “Get over yourself, will you? Of course I didn’t.”  
  
“Then why are you here?” His rough voice dripped with disdain. “Thought you were back at court.”  
  
Jaskier let out a dramatic sigh, perching on a low-hanging branch.  
  
“I was, but the Countess – well, long story short, she banished me. And put a teensy, _teensy_ tiny price on my head.”  
  
“What did you do this time?”  
  
“Just once I’d love for you to give me the benefit of the doubt. It’s not fair - ”  
  
Geralt finally turned around, snatching his tunic from the shore to dry himself off and Jaskier nearly fell off the branch. His hands immediately flew up to shield his eyes.  
  
“Good _gods_ , Geralt – why are you _fully erect_?”  
  
“Again?”  
  
Indifferent gold eyes glanced down as Jaskier spluttered out an almost unintelligible, “ _what do you mean 'again_?'” After a beat, Geralt shrugged and continued drying himself off.  
  
“Werewolf bite.”  
  
“ _Please_ explain what one thing has to do with the other.”  
  
“It's the only aspect of the curse I’m not immune to. Since lycanthropy can be passed to offspring, it compels the infected to, uh...” He squinted as he searched for the right words. “Spread their seed.”  
  
"And just how long does this last?” Jaskier made the mistake of peeking. " _Down_ , boy.”  
  
Geralt rolled his eyes and slipped on his clothes. He carefully slowed his breathing, willing the blood elsewhere so he could button his pants.  
  
“It's taken about a day to work through my system. Last night was...worse.”  
  
Seeing he was dressed, Jaskier stopped making such a show of covering his face. “No wonder that sorceress is always in such a mood, having to contend with _that_ in the bedroom. I think I saw an elbow.”  
  
“Are you done?”  
  
“Not quite. Tell me, does it have its own saddle? Do you have to call it ‘sir?’”  
  
The Witcher groaned and stalked over to the little fire he’d built – perhaps, in part, to cover up the way the corner of his mouth twitched at those last two – when a long, low howl abruptly tore through the trees. Both men snapped to attention.  
  
“Was that the...”  
  
Geralt nodded and quickly started donning his armor. “She’s close.”  
  
Jaskier scurried to his side, nervously eyeing the underbrush.  
  
“You’re not going to kill her, are you? Isn’t she still a person in there?”  
  
“She made the choice not to shift back after the last full moon, abandoning her human form. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn't listen. She's killed dozens. No choice but to put her down.”  
  
For the first time, the bard noticed the slowly-healing bite marks around the wrist of Geralt’s left hand. He also noticed that even though he’d finished securing his armor, he was only wearing one glove. Before he could ask, the Witcher suddenly pulled out a slab of raw meat from his pack and thrust it into his hands.  
  
“No thanks?” He gingerly held it aloft. "I...already ate. Wait, why are you smirking like that? No... _no_! Geralt, you said the succubus was the last time, you _promised_ \- "  
  
A large hand clapped his shoulder, steering him towards the source of the howling. "Come on, Jaskier. Just think of it as a big, fluffy dog that wants to play."  
  
♜ ♖  
  
That was how Jaskier found himself in the woods beneath a full moon, waving a slab of raw meat in the air and trying to pass it (or, more accurately, himself) off as a four-course meal.  
  
"Psspss. Here, wolfy wolfy. I've got a yummy treat for you. Some lovely...I want to say venison?" He lowered his voice. " _Geralt, is this venison_? _You never give_ me _venison._ "  
  
No response. Right. Sneak attack, that was the plan. She was wary of the Witcher's scent after their last encounter, and so he remained cloaked in the underbrush with his weapon at the ready.  
  
A twig snapped to Jaskier's left and he yelped, dropping the meat.  
  
"Oof...five second rule, am I right?"  
  
He quickly knelt to pick it up, but didn't see the stray bit of iron from what might have once been a weapon sticking up out of the earth. It sliced a path straight across his palm and he hissed, watching blood immediately well up and spill over.  
  
He straightened, heard the sound of birds scattering in the trees above. Then a snarl, something crashing through the bushes.  
  
One minute it was a yard away between the trees and the next it was right there, a massive black shape hurtling towards him at breakneck speeds. He saw bloodied fangs, glowing golden eyes, snapping jaws, but before the beast could reach him something shiny whistled over his shoulder and buried itself deeply in her chest.  
  
Jaskier watched, dumbfounded, as the wolf skidded to a stop at his feet, the tip of her snout less than an inch from his boot. She did not move. He heard footsteps come up from behind, then a calloused hand turned him around and took his, cautiously turning it over to examine the large cut on his palm.  
  
He expected a scolding remark, some sort of insult, but none came. Geralt wordlessly used his teeth to tear a strip of cloth from his cloak and began winding it around the injury. This felt like progress and he was terrified of fucking it up.  
  
"So-o-o...do you want to head back to camp and cook up that - "  
  
"Look out!"  
  
Before Jaskier could register what was happening, strong arms had grabbed him and spun him around.  
  
Pain exploded in Geralt's ankle and to compensate he put too much weight on Jaskier's shoulders, knocking them both off-balance. The bard fell back onto the forest floor, the wind knocked out of him once when he landed, and again seconds later when the Witcher's full weight crashed right on top of him.  
  
Geralt grunted as the wolf's jaw went slack. She released his ankle and her heartbeat stopped again, for good. It had been what tipped him off, a single thready _thump_. Her last ditch effort at spreading the curse.  
  
Jaskier's leg was what she'd been aiming for, he instinctively knew. All she needed to do was break the skin to alter the course of his life forever.  
  
"Mmrfrt?"  
  
Right. Shoving him out of the way meant nothing if he crushed him to death. Geralt used his arms to push his upper body off the ground, planting one on either side of the confused and flustered face below. He could feel warm blood painting the interior of his boot, followed by that familiar heat blossoming in his veins like a shot of whiskey warming his chest but it was everywhere, all-encompassing, and he knew it wouldn't be long until it reached a fever-pitch.  
  
"Geralt, what happened? Are you all right?"  
  
When he realized his thigh was slotted between the bard's legs he moved it, but unwittingly brushed against a tender spot that drew a surprised sound and had slender fingers digging deeper into his flesh. It wasn't until that moment that he noticed just where the bard's hands had landed.  
  
"Jaskier."  
  
Doe-like eyes gazed balefully up at him, trying to look the picture of holy innocence.  
  
"If you're going to ask about the sound I just made, Geralt, please do me a favor and _don't_."  
  
"You are grabbing my arse."  
  
Jaskier removed his hands with a gasp, looking mortified. Geralt had never seen anyone's cheeks turn such an alarming shade of scarlet.  
  
"That was an _arse_? I thought it was a leg, or an arm - or maybe a steel beam."  
  
He supplemented that with a breathy laugh and Geralt realized he was nervous. He moved to get off him but a wave of hot dizziness crashed over him, had him bowing his head and digging his fingers into the grass. Same as last night. He had barely been able to make it back to camp. Not good.  
  
"What's wrong? You're all sweaty." The lithe body beneath his started squirming so its owner could get a better look at what was going on and he gritted his teeth. In his haze, he heard a gasp that made his heart stutter. "Is - is that blood? How..."  
  
Geralt purposefully locked his eyes on a spot of grass above the other's head. "Stop talking."  
  
"Your leg...you spun me around. You knew what she was going to do, and you..." another gasp, "you took another bite? For me?"  
  
His head already felt swollen, seconds from bursting. " _Jaskier_."  
  
"Sorry, sorry. How can I help?"  
  
"You can't. It needs to run its course."  
  
"But you're burning up, I can feel it from here. There must be something I can do to relieve - "  
  
Geralt tore his eyes from the grass to deliver a patented _look_. "Sex, Jaskier. To completion."  
  
The bard choked. "I meant more along the lines of a cold compress, but...where's Miss Spooky Sexy? Don't suppose she could pop over and - "  
  
" _No_. I don't know."  
  
"The wish again?"  
  
A curt nod that was followed by an awkward silence. Geralt willed his body to move - because it pinning Jaskier to the ground was looking more and more sinister with each passing second - but an unfamiliar voice in the back of his mind hissed in anticipation at the way the bard's throat bobbed in the moonlight with a nervous swallow.  
  
_Smaller than you. Weaker than you. Prey._  
  
"You know, there were a few lovely ladies of the evening at the inn down the road. Maybe one of them would be open to..."  
  
_Take him right here, on the cold ground._  
  
The veins in his arms bulged and his voice was hoarse as he ground out, "Might hurt them."  
  
_Make him yours. Make him yours._  
  
Jaskier squirmed uncomfortably again before seemingly coming to a decision.  
  
"Right. Never let it be said I'm a fair-weather friend."  
  
_Make him_ -  
  
When he started unbuttoning his doublet, however, Geralt snapped back as if he'd been burned. He shot to his feet, still dizzy but spurred into action by the scent of fear. Jaskier's fear. Jaskier was afraid. Trying valiantly to hide it, but his fingers trembled on the third button.  
  
"What are you doing?"  
  
"It's my fault you're like this, isn't it? She would've turned me...I owe you my life. My _humanity_. The least I can do is - "  
  
"What the fuck, Jaskier? Do you hear yourself right now?" The wolfish voice purred at the bard's disturbing proposition. "I'm not asking for - for fucking _compensation_."  
  
"That's not - I only meant - "  
  
"Just...stop talking. For one blessed minute."  
  
As Jaskier slowly nodded and did the buttons back up, Geralt braced himself against a tree, riding another wave that coursed through his veins like wildfire. Even the rough fabric of his linen tunic brushing against skin was agony, pure torture, his nerve endings like live wires. What had helped last night?  
  
Water. Cold water. It had taken awhile for the worst of it to wear off and even after an entire day he still experienced... _symptoms_ , but the cold water had helped ground him.  
  
After the wave passed and the voice softened to a manageable, yet persistent, whisper he straightened up and jerked his head towards the lake. With that, they made their way back to Roach and the lake. He shed his clothes and immediately got in, searing-hot skin sizzling upon contact with its frigid water.  
  
Steam rose off his shoulders in clouds and though the urge to deflower the nearest _orifice_ was still there, intensifying every time he caught a whiff of Jaskier's obnoxious perfume on the breeze, he was at least able to get his thoughts back in order.  
  
Jaskier uncorked the bottle the innkeeper had given him and sat on the lake's edge with his legs crossed. A little too close at first - Geralt gave him a look that had him shuffling a healthier distance away.  
  
After a few more minutes, he simply had to break the tense silence.  
  
"Can I just say I am _flattered_ \- "  
  
"Don't be."  
  
" - I know I'm irresistible. Many a lady has been captivated by my roguish charm and it was only a matter of time before you, too, succumbed - "  
  
"'Roguish charm?'" Geralt snorted. "To put it into perspective, I'd fuck a grave hag right now if she asked nicely."  
  
" _Eugh_. That's a lot of tongue." Jaskier watched the Witcher splash his face - the healing injury on his left hand made a lightbulb go off, and he gasped. "Oh! I almost forgot. Where did your other glove go?"  
  
"Why?"  
  
"You'll see. Give me your hand."  
  
Gold eyes narrowed. The lustful fog had started to abate, but that seemed a little too close. " _Why_?"  
  
"Really? After you just used me as she-wolf bait? Give me your hand, you scallywag."  
  
He grudgingly complied as Jaskier scooted closer, pulled the sorry-looking glove out of his back pocket, and took his hand. Then he started slowly putting it on, finger by finger, his own slender ones moving with such focus and care around the still-tender skin it was almost irritating.  
  
Once it was on, Jaskier drew back with a low whistle. A perfect fit.  
  
"Now _that_ is spooky. It's yours, right?"  
  
"Why the fuck do you have this, Jaskier?"  
  
"Funny story, actually..."  
  
Jaskier passed him the bottle and started recounting it, sparing no detail.  
  
"So there it was, floating in this puddle, and - "  
  
There was an odd look on Geralt's face. "Puddle?"  
  
"Yes, a puddle of rainwater. Really brackish...and foamy. I think that's why it smells so bad."  
  
"It hasn't rained in a week, Jaskier."  
  
"Oh. So...you're saying it was a teeny tiny lake?"  
  
"The wolf took my glove when she nearly took my hand."  
  
"You're saying it was _drool_?"  
  
"Drool would be clear."  
  
The slowly budding look of horror on Jaskier's face was priceless.  
  
"What was it?" He swallowed thickly, glancing down at the hands he hadn't washed all day. "What was the puddle, Geralt?"  
  
For the first time since the tense moment on the forest floor, Geralt cracked a wicked smirk, letting the bard wriggle in suspense for a minute longer.  
  
"Vomit." His smirk grew as Jaskier's face paled. "It was vomit. A wolf swallowed my glove whole, puked it up on the side of the road, and you sifted through the bile to retrieve it."  
  
"No. Nonono..." Immediately, the bard lurched forward, sticking his hands in the icy water and started to _scrub_. "No, Geralt, that is _disgusting_! That is absolutely foul, I was practically elbow-deep and - are you _laughing_ at me?"  
  
Indeed he was. It wasn't entirely out loud, not at first, but once it moved out of his chest it evolved into a disarmingly nice sound. Rumbly, like the wheels of a carriage turning over cobblestone. Warm, too. Shockingly so.  
  
Jaskier's fervent splashing paused when he realized it was his first time ever hearing it. The smile that accompanied it lit up the harsh lines of that brooding face in a way he didn't think possible.  
  
And how did that silver mane, normally so unruly, create such a pleasant 'v' between his shoulder blades when wet? It shifted with his laughter, sending a small creek of glistening water down his broad back.  
  
The bard had no way of knowing that was the exact moment a small crush on the sweaty, laughing man floating in the water before him developed; a crush his heart would nurture until it swelled and bloomed but, one he would also remain obstinately oblivious to for years to come. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> geralt of rivia spits in the face of the f or die trope


	96. Chapter 96

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back to regularly scheduled programming! Reunited and it feeeels so *squints at geralt* baaad? He really went through with it. Damn shawty ok!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I grossed myself out so hard writing this one I had to walk away from the screen flapping my hands hahaha. I sure do write a lot of gore for someone who faints when they get a nosebleed. Anyways, tried not to go too into detail because woof
> 
> edit: mmmmmmTYPOS "what i can do?" made me throw up 😍

Jaskier carefully helped Casper prop himself up against a chunk of stone and knelt before him. He ran a shaky hand through his hair, exhaling loudly as he took in the extent of the damage.  
  
It was bad. Whatever it was was moving quickly - within minutes it had worked its way up to both of the mage's knees, consumed his whole arm. And the permanence with which the little pieces of his body were vanishing into thin air was...disconcerting.  
  
"What can I do?”  
  
“Nothing to do. I've gone down a path from which there is no return.”  
  
A guilty lump started forming in Jaskier's throat.  
  
"Sounds like cryptic nonsense to me.”  
  
“It's not cryptic nonsense, you prick. It's the truth. Those burns you saw, they were Valefor's way of warning me I was going too far. I didn’t listen. Ergo, path. On it, can't do anything about it, what's done is done.”  
  
“But how is there no way to stop it? There's always - ”  
  
" _What's done is done._ That's how these deals work, how they've always worked. No turning back. The power I received in exchange for my sacrifice, it's been keeping this vessel alive for centuries." When Jaskier's nose scrunched, he paused to think of an appropriate analogy. "Think of it like an oil lamp - needs the oil to function, right? But in this case, the 'oil' is a concentrated amount of chaos and I'm not the lamp, but the flame produced. I only exist when there is oil. The reason I needed to start fresh, make another deal - and secure another vessel - was because I was running out.”  
  
“So this is what happens when it's all gone? You turn into Casper dust?”  
  
“Whatever a thousands-year-old body _would_ turn into without all those preservation spells and glamours. 'Casper dust' is, um...one way of putting it. Can you believe this is all because some bard wouldn't shut his gob?” Casper tore his eyes from his disintegrating waist to regard Jaskier teasingly. There wasn't a drop of bitterness in his voice, though there was fear. “I thought Geralt was kidding when he said you'd talked a man to death.”  
  
Jaskier managed an unconvincing chuckle, the lump growing with each word.  
  
"I didn't know you’d crumble like a human _sand castle_. I was just trying to get you to stop, and when I saw the way your spells kept hurting you I thought…” His vision blurred suddenly, voice cracking - it took him by surprise. He firmly shook his head. “I didn’t think you would die. Or maybe part of me did, but not…”  
  
_Not like this_ , his brain supplied. _Lucid, forced to watch your own clock run out._ He remembered all too well that day in the grass at Jannick’s keep, that feeling of helplessness as the life slowly left him through the hole in his breast. That he had unwittingly inflicted something similar upon someone else…  
  
“I should be thanking you, Jaskier. Without his vile brand of chaos coursing through my veins, I can see how much it corrupted me. I finally…” his breathing was becoming strained but Jaskier was afraid to look down, to see how much of him was gone, “finally feel like myself, how I was before. I want you to know I'm not - I wasn't a bad person. Or a cold-blooded murderer...just young, reckless. And unbearably stupid.”  
  
Jaskier cracked a grin, causing a tear to escape from the corner of his eye. "You? _No_.”  
  
Casper met it with a lopsided smile of his own. Funny how the expression was slightly different now. A little more crooked...he liked this one better.  
  
It was gone as suddenly as it had come. "I caught a glimpse of the future, before. I saw the demon using your hands to hurt. To kill. Because you let it in. You have to promise me that when the time comes, you'll say no."  
  
"Let it in - as in, make a _deal_? I would never - "  
  
"You say that now, but you will. Don't know why. It was only a glimpse..." he made the mistake of glancing down, seeing what was gone and what wasn't. His breathing took a sudden turn for the worse, "oh shit, it's - it's really getting up there, isn't it? - _fuck_ \- "  
  
Talking had helped, Jaskier recalled.  
  
“Never mind all that - look, look at me. So...right, so we’ve got young, reckless, and stupid. What else?” His eyes swept over the other’s new face. “I wish to know more about this dimpled, pre-demon Casper.”  
  
“Total - _total_ handful. Always getting into something. Luckily, Obravos was always there to get me out of it.”  
  
“Obravos...was that your friend? The one you…”  
  
“Mm. Had...had arms like limp noodles, could barely wield a sword. Even in our middle years…but he had better control over chaos than anyone I've ever known and was clever, so clever. Could talk his way out of anything. This one time, when we were barely fourteen, I made the mistake of mouthing off to the wrong brute…”  
  
For the next few minutes, Casper spoke - his voice had gradually returned to normal, had regained its confidence, the memory calming him - and Jaskier listened.  
  
“…he managed to convince the man to give us all the coin in his pockets. Compensation for my ‘emotional damages.’ Brilliant stuff. We used it buy the biggest melon in the market and he portaled us up to the top of the door…we’d often go up there to enjoy the sunset but that night we stayed for hours, solving all the world’s problems. What I wouldn't give for a chance to be up there with him again.”  
  
His eyes and lips were the last to go and when they did, they were both curved around a sad smile. Jaskier reached for him, hand lingering in the space he had just inhabited as the last tiny speckles scattered to the wind.  
  
"I hope you get that chance," he murmured, letting his hand drop to the ground, "goodbye, Cas - "  
  
Before he could get the name out, could spare a second to come to terms with or even figure out how he felt about the mage's demise, the roof was rocked by a violent shockwave. He fell forward, catching himself on his hands as the stone beneath him started splitting down the middle.  
  
"That's not good." He pushed himself up onto his feet, sprinting away from the growing crack and towards the roof's edge. "Not good, not good, not - whoa, _whoa_!"  
  
He had reached the edge in time to see Vrart rear his ugly head, less than a foot away.  
  
He had Geralt.  
  
Geralt was...  
  
Realizing he had an audience, the demon playfully tossed the Witcher up in the air and deftly used his tail to catch him by an arm that looked one good tug away from being completely ripped off.  
  
Horribly enough, he was conscious. Still holding the sword, though it wasn't doing him much good. His eyes were half-mast, face coated in sweat and grime, and good _gods_ , that arm...when he caught sight of Jaskier those eyes brightened a little, and the fact that the corners of his lips tugged upwards rather than downwards let the other know just how bad his condition was.  
  
"Jas - "  
  
Vrart giggled, giving Geralt a violent shake to shut him up before dangling him overhead.  
  
"I have to say, bard. I am impressed. Really didn't think you had it in you."  
  
Jaskier tried to keep his voice even. "It's over. Please, let him go."  
  
"Why should I, hm? As you said, it's _over_. My deal fell _through_. My master is _dead_. I only got to eat _three people_ while I was on earth and they weren't even properly _tenderized_!"  
  
With each word he put emphasis on, Vrart constricted his tail, eliciting a series of tortured sounds from the Witcher that made Jaskier's heart leap to his throat. He had never in his life heard him sound like that. It was awful.  
  
"This one is, though...to perfection."  
  
He tilted his head back, opening his mouth as wide as it would go, and pretended to drop Geralt in. He caught that poor arm again at the last second and coyly slid his gaze back over to the horrified bard, who had fallen to his knees and practically screamed Geralt's name.  
  
"The pipes on you. _Purr_." He leveled his face with Jaskier's, keeping Geralt dangling over the top of his flat, scaly skull. "If you're going to give me range like that, I'll take my sweet time. We'll go limb by limb, re-e-eal slow...now, for the legs, I'm thinking you can do a high-pitched squeal, and for the..."  
  
As he spoke, Jaskier noticed the Witcher had stopped his weak kicking and flailing and instead, raised his sword. To start hacking at the tail holding him hostage, presumably. For what else could he do in -  
  
Without a moment's hesitation, he leveled the blade at the joint where his arm met his shoulder, drew it back, and _swung_.  
  
" _No_!"  
  
Jaskier's cry came too late and with the bone already broken to bits, one sure swing was all it took for the limb to be severed. Geralt didn't even have a second to register the blinding pain, forced it from his mind - he angled the bloodied sword downwards and used the momentum of his fall to drive it right through the soft spot at the center of Vrart's skull.  
  
A few things happened at once. The wicked light left Vrart's eyes almost immediately. His massive body pitched forward, slammed head-first into the wall and shook the whole building. Geralt lost his grip on the blade and was unceremoniously flung off - Jaskier shouted for him, looking on in holy terror as he crashed-landed onto the balcony below.  
  
The demon's corpse slid off the roof and gathered in a coiled heap at the bottom of the pit.  
  
The Witcher did not move.  
  
♜ ♖  
  
"Oh-h-h, oh, oh, that's a lot of blood. That's a _lot_ of blood."  
  
Jaskier's hands fluttered helplessly over the gaping wound. A red puddle was steadily forming beneath it.  
  
"I don't think I've ever _seen_ so much blood - I think I - I'm gonna be sick...oh, Geralt! Thank the gods, you're awake, are you all right? What am I saying, of course you're not all right, you shouldn't be awake - but gods, your fucking _arm_ , what do I _do_ \- "  
  
The Witcher groaned, eyes fluttering open. His vision was blackening around the edges - two worried Jaskiers hovered above and he blinked until there was only one. Pain shortly hit him like a carriage at full-speed and he groaned again, remembering what he had done. At this rate, it wouldn't be long before he passed out again.  
  
He couldn't have been out for very long. An injury like this gone untreated guaranteed death within minutes. He struggled to keep his thoughts in order as the bard chattered overhead. He was bleeding out in a strange place with no medical supplies. That left only one option, but he had to be quick, before he went under again.  
  
When he spoke, he wasn't surprised to find his words were slurring together.  
  
“Need to use igni on it. Have to hold me down. Like I taught you.”  
  
Jaskier paled. “But that move’s only meant for fun times - ”  
  
“Not this time.” He stubbornly shook off the encroaching sleepiness. "Hurry. I'm going to...can't..."  
  
Reluctantly, Jaskier did as he was told, squeezing his eyes shut but then peeking out of one as Geralt raised his remaining hand to his shoulder. They both braced themselves.  
  
But nothing happened. Not even a spark.  
  
He tried again. After the third attempt he sagged back into the ground, chest heaving. “Shit.”  
  
"Bollocks, um...okay. Everything's okay, everything's peachy. We can, uh - oh, a tourniquet! That's a thing, right? How - how do I make one?"  
  
Something in the Witcher's expression had changed the second his palm refused to ignite.  
  
"Jaskier..."  
  
The other had yet to notice. He shrugged out of his doublet and started ripping off long strips, rambling nervously. "H-how many is this, now? Five? Ten? _Fifteen doublets_ ruined by your fluids?"  
  
"Jask - "  
  
Jaskier ignored him in favor of tightly wrapping the wound, trying not to think about the way his whole body seized at the contact. Blood squelched and squished between his fingers, stained the ground, his clothes - everything. So much...  
  
"At - at this point I should just start wearing bandages instead of clothes. Like a...what are those creepy little fellows called? You know, they're all wrinkled and live in - "  
  
"Stop - "  
  
" - mummy! Yes, a mummy. Thank you. I think I could pull it off, don't you? I could dye the - "  
  
" _Jaskier_!" Geralt's voice was ragged, utterly wrecked and not in the way the bard preferred. He had snatched one of his hands, holding tight enough to bruise as he dragged it back. "Stop. You need. To _stop_."  
  
"But the bandage - "  
  
"Forget the bandage."  
  
"But Geralt, you need - "  
  
"I said," he ground the words out through tightly clenched teeth, giving the bard's hand an insistent squeeze when he tried yanking it free, " _forget the bandage_."  
  
Jaskier stopped struggling, finally catching on, finally understanding the look on his face. He let out a soft 'oh' and numbly settled back on his heels.  
  
They remained like that for a beat, Geralt's labored breathing the only sound that broke the silence. Then, like he was moving in a dream, Jaskier quietly extracted his hand and slipped a ring off his thumb. A simple silver band, less elaborate than the rest of his jewelry. It was nothing special, just a filler piece.  
  
But it was the only one that would fit the large hand now resting in his lap. He wordlessly slipped it onto Geralt’s bloodied ring finger and they both fell silent for a beat longer.  
  
“You don’t have to do this, Jaskier.”  
  
“Of course I don't - I _want_ to.”  
  
Dull amber eyes were trained on the ring. A near-perfect fit. “It won't change anything.”  
  
“You're wrong - it will change everything.” Jaskier’s voice trembled. Even with his sad attempt at a tourniquet, the blood had reached his knees, seeping into the stone beneath them. So much blood. “So, what will it be? Yes or no?”  
  
“My answer is no.” Geralt pulled his hand out of the other’s, used his teeth to remove the ring and spat it out on the ground with a soft _clink_. “Don't - _mh_ \- don't look at me like that. You're better off.”  
  
Jaskier hastily picked it back up, the unsaid 'without me' hanging in the air between them. “That's not fair - ”  
  
“Doesn't have to be...never should have let it get this far. If I hadn't, you'd be leagues away. Ploughing some noble in a...stable...”  
  
Geralt's voice was growing weaker, more distant, the words coming out less fluid. He was sounding less pained by the second. Jaskier hated it.  
  
“Now I know you're just talking out of your arse because I would never plough _anyone_ in such a place. I have standards.” When Geralt raised a brow, Jaskier laughed but it sounded more like a sob. “Okay - that was _one_ time. And it was only because you’d been gone for a week and I simply had to have you.”  
  
With shaky hands, he slipped the ring back onto Geralt’s finger, stomach clenching when he felt how slack his grip had become. His words tumbled out faster.  
  
“Anyway, I'm going to have to formally reject your rejection. Because in the end, it doesn’t matter where I would or wouldn’t be, what I would or wouldn't be doing. Because I love you. And – and I know you think it’s cliché when dialogue comes full-circle like this in books, but I have to say it. Geralt, life without you would be like - ”  
  
A whisper-soft groan. “Don’t you dare - ”  
  
“ – like a filling-less pie.”  
  
“Ugh. Fuh - _fuck_ you, Jaskier.”  
  
Another half-laugh, half-sob. “Is that a promise or a threat?”  
  
When the Witcher didn't respond, panic flared in his chest.  
  
“Well? Which is it? A promise or - hey, open your eyes...” He released his hand in favor of slapping his cheek, lightly at first but more urgent with each passing second. “Shit, Ger - _Geralt_! Oh, no - no you don’t! You don’t get to leave me - not like this, you bastard, you - ”  
  
He cut himself off with a gasp. That last slap had caused Geralt's head to loll limply to the side, _splishing_ in a puddle of his own blood. The horrible sound and the empty silence and stillness that followed caused him to freeze in place like a statue. For a long moment he knelt there in shock, a trembling hand covering his mouth, unable to tear his eyes from the pale, dirty, bloody face before him...  
  
He shook his head, grabbed the other’s shoulders – no longer mindful of the ruined one – and gave them a violent shake. Then another. Another. The back of Geralt's head thumped loudly against stone, and big fat tears plopped steadily onto his cheeks from above, tracking through the grime and gore.  
  
“ _Nonono_ , Geralt, please – please don’t leave me. I'm sorry I called you a bastard, I take it back, just - please open your eyes, I’ll - I'll do anything – even that thing I said I'd never do, with the - the stuffed unicorn and the rope and...Geralt! You _bastard_ , are you even listening to me? You're really going to let your last words be 'fuck you, Jaskier?' After all we've been through? Gods, please - please say _something_...”  
  
Eventually, when he was only met with more silence, more stillness, he buried his face in the other's chest. It muffled his cries, both his hands fisted in the rough fabric of a blood-drenched tunic and twisting weakly every so often.  
  
“Please wake up...please… _please_ …”  
  
Each ‘please’ got softer, weaker.  
  
Casper was dead. Geralt...he hadn't been able to help either of them. And now he was stuck in a strange world, all alone, suffocated by the loudest silence he'd ever heard.  
  
Still, he kept begging, saying the word so many times it stopped sounding like a word at all.  
  
It wasn’t until the Witcher’s body had gone cold that an oily whisper interrupted his quiet, desperate mantra and tickled his ear, crawling up his spine and raising every hair.  
  
“ _Anything_?” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey guyssss, sorry for like *shyly tucks hair behind ear* literally killing two characters in one chapter or whateverrr, ahaha, whoa what's that over there *cutely runs away*


End file.
